The Deaf Detective and the Army Doctor
by Banbi-V
Summary: AU where Sherlock is deaf and in need of a room mate. As fate would have it, so does a certain Army doctor home from the war. Eventual Johnlock. Action, drama, hurt/comfort, character deaths, violence, and plot twists galore.
1. First Meeting

Ch 1.

Mike Stamford led John Watson into the new lab at the university, where a single man sat at the table, peering into a microscope. John looked him over, dark hair, pale skin, very skinny; probably a student. Mike knocked on the table and the man looked up with bright piercing blue eyes.

"Sherlock, this is my friend, John Watson," he announced. "John, this is Sherlock Holmes."

He nodded, eyes scanning John then he turned to Mike, holding his right hand up, thumb and pinky extended, to his ear.

"Sorry, I left mine in the car," Mike used British Sign Language as he spoke. John frowned.

"Wait is he deaf?" John asked quietly, not sure why he was lowering his voice.

"Yeah," he replied. "Do you have your phone with you?"

John dug into his pocket and pulled it out, handing it to Sherlock. The younger man texted quickly and handed it back, signing Thank you as he did.

_~Afghanistan or Iraq?~_

"How-?" John stared at him in disbelief. "Wait, you did say something to him!"

Mike shook his head. "Not a word."

John erased the last two words, returning his phone. Sherlock smirked, typed away, and spun the phone around on the table.

_~Well, your haircut and your posture, says you were in the army. You're tanned, but not above the wrists, that told me you worked in the sun, probably in the medical field. You limp, but while you're standing, you seem to forget about it. I'd say it's mostly psychosomatic, probably trauma from being wounded in action. Obviously.~_

John shot Mike another glare and he chuckled. "Yeah, he does that."

He frowned, typing his reply._ ~How did you do that?~_

Sherlock smiled, resembling an overgrown child, giddy and excited. He added a quick note and slid the phone towards John.

_~I simply observe and you don t have to type. I m quite the expert at reading lips.~_

Sherlock gave a small chuckle upon seeing John's surprised face. Most people were shocked when they realized he could lips, because he always chose to mention it after they commented on his disability. John's grip on his phone tightened slightly and Sherlock knew he read it.

"Oh, sorry," he stammered, setting the phone on the counter. "I didn't-I mean well...considering that stunt you just pulled, why wouldn't you read lips?"

Sherlock turned his attention to Mike, signing quickly with his hands.

"He wants to know how you feel about a flat mate playing the violin? He plays it when he s thinking or bored," Mike relayed the message. "He's quite good," he added, smiling.

John gaped. "How does he-wait, who said anything about a flat mate? You did say something to him, didn't you?" John asked accusingly.

Mike raised his right hand, "I swear, I told him nothing. You saw for yourself how he does it."

John turned to Sherlock, "So...just like that, we're moving in together? We don't even know each other, I don't know a thing about you, aside from you being deaf!"

Sherlock signed to Mike, who spoke for him. "He says there s not much to him. He s a consulting detective and he gets lonely sometimes, which is why he s looking for a flat mate." He turned towards John, putting a hand on his shoulder. "But really, he s a great bloke. You d enjoy his company," he grinned. "The address is 221B Baker Street, if you re interested."

_~I must be going. It was a pleasure to meet you, John.~_

Sherlock returned John s phone to him, putting his coat and scarf on before heading out the door.

John stood there, absolutely stunned. Did that really just happen? Did a deaf man offer to be his flat mate after 10 minutes of conversing?

"Well what do you think?" Mike asked, snapping him out of his haze.

"I, uh...," John started. "I don't know."

Mike put on his coat. "Just give him a chance, John. I know he'd kill me if he knew I said this, but...he really is lonely. He needs someone to...help him. Not in a complete invalid way, but...you know what I mean."

* * *

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up around the flat. After a few hours, he felt his phone vibrate, and he whipped it out anxiously.

_~Someone s at the door for you.~ _

He beamed and bounded down the stairs, opening the door to reveal John Watson. He waved and held the door for him to come through. Sherlock bounced back up the stairs, waiting as John hobbled, using his cane for balance. He watched as John stepped in his-their flat, taking the scene in.

John moved over to the mantle and froze as he eyes met the hollow sockets of the skull. "Is that...real?" he asked, pointing at it. Sherlock nodded. John's eyes widened a bit as he looked over the room. "And...all this mess is yours?"

Sherlock frowned. It wasn't that messy. He pulled out his phone, texting quickly and tossed it to him.

_~I can obviously rearrange to accompany your personal belongings.~_

"Your room will be right down the hall," Sherlock said aloud pointing. Judging by John's wide eyes, and slightly agape mouth, he knew he'd startled him. "Sorry," he apologized. Most people were taken back when he spoke. His voice had been described to him once as husky and choppy, yet velvety and smooth at the same time.

Sherlock knew his voice was far from perfect, even after years of speech therapy. He still couldn t pronounce R s and D s very well and sometimes words came out with a lisp. Only in times of desperate need, or in front of someone he trusted, did he dare use his vocal chords.

"N-no," John said, shutting his mouth and mentally beating himself for being rude. "I wasn't sure if you could talk. I'm not exactly fluent in sign language. Been a bit too busy recently."

Sherlock laughed a bit, "I wasn't born deaf, so I am capable of speaking. And if you'd like, I could teach you to sign," Sherlock suggesting slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

They spoke as Sherlock toured John around the flat, showing him each room.

"Can I ask what happened?" John said as Sherlock opened the door to his bedroom. There was a king size bed covered with blankets and pillows and the periodic table was framed on the opposite wall.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed sharply. "Well uh...When I was 8 years old, I got an ear infection in both ears. My brother and I were always told not to bother our parents, because they were very busy people, so I didn't tell anyone about it. After about a month, I started to lose my hearing; completely losing it after a period of three months. I finally told my parents, and they were very angry with me, but instead of sending me to a deaf school, they continued to send me to a hearing school with strict speech therapy. When I was 15, my father died, and my mum allowed to me attend a deaf school, where I was finally taught British Sign Language," his tried not to sign as he spoke, resulting in his hands fidgeting nervously.

"Oh jeeze...that's terrible, I'm sorry," John wished he hadn't asked. They continued the rest of the tour in silence, save for Sherlock saying random tidbits of info about each room.

When they returned to the main room, Sherlock sat in his chair and John took the one across from it, adjusting the small pillow with the British flag on it.

"John, don't feel bad," Sherlock whispered, his hands were on his lap, but he still signed. Sherlock was never usually embarrassed of his disability. He truly hated the word. But this was one of those times he wished it wasn't a part of him. He didn't want to tell John some sob story, making John pity him, rather than his equal. Sherlock decided to change the subject.

"So, tell me about Afghanistan," he demanded lightly.

John snorted. "What's there to tell? It was hot as hell, smelled like arse, and there was never a moment of peace," he said bluntly.

Sherlock smiled. "It isn't like that here, I promise. Mrs. Hudson will argue otherwise, don't believe her. And speaking of Mrs. Hudson, you met her, didn't you?" He knew that if John had already spoken to her, if was almost guaranteed she d said something embarrassing about Sherlock.

"Very briefly," John replied. "She just told me you were up here. Charming lady, is she your house keeper or something?"

Sherlock laughed loudly, "I like to think she is. Technically though, she is my landlady." After a moment he added, "Do you know how to make tea? I'd love a cup."

John propped his leg forward and rose to his feet, wincing at the pain in his leg and tried to hide his limp as best he could as he moved into the kitchen. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his leg and felt his face burn with embarrassment._ "At least we're two peas in a pod,"_ he thought. "Yeah, sure, where s your kettle?"

"Beside the stove," Sherlock felt sad upon seeing John s pain.

Maybe the limp and pain wasn't psychosomatic, as he believed earlier. The look on his face told Sherlock it wasn't all in his mind.

"What caused the limp?" The words left his mouth before he could think them over. He kicked himself mentally, it was rude to ask such a thing.

John gripped the kettle a bit tighter than usual. He pursed his lips and sighed, "Ambush." He kept his back turned, straightening up into his military stance as he marched over to the tap and turned it on. "Poor bastards in my unit didn't know what to do once their doctor was down," he added dryly and sarcastically. He turned the stove on and set the kettle over it. "Cups?" he asked, looking at the cabinets.

Sherlock joined him in the kitchen, pulling two cups down from the cabinet in front of them. With his back turned, Sherlock didn't catch any of what John said, but he figured it was for the best. "Sorry, that was all I read. I didn't see what you said before."

"Nothing," John shook his head. "I got shot in the shoulder," he patted the scar, hidden by his jumper.

Sherlock felt of a wave of pity wash over him. He quickly shook it off, knowing that he hated being pitied, so John probably did too. Sherlock saw the steam come out of the kettle, and moved it from the stove, pouring it into the two mugs. "Do you want sugar in yours?" He asked, in the best form of a whisper he could use.

"I'm good thanks," John grabbed his mug, blew the steam off and took a sip. "That's good stuff." He walked back over to his chair and sat down, careful not to spill the hot drink on himself. Last thing he needed was to prove his body was a wreck from war.

Sherlock took his cup to the sofa and sat down. He scrunched his nose at the hot liquid and set it down to cool off. He watched as John drank his, feeling the uncomfortable tension in the room. He fidgeted silently. He felt the need to say something, so he prodded for more info.

"So...do you have a girlfriend?" he wondered aloud.

John smirked, almost sadly, his shoulders slumping. He shook his head wordlessly. "How about you?" he asked, glancing up at Sherlock as he took another sip of tea.

"Not really my area," Sherlock laughed bitterly, twiddling his thumbs to keep his hands busy. _Women in general aren't really my area_, he thought, grabbing his mug, and lightly blowing on it, until it was finally cool enough to take a drink of.

"I see...how 'bout," John gulped nervously, "how 'bout a boyfriend, then?" He secretly hoped Sherlock would say no. _Why?_ he wondered to himself. He'd only known the man for a few hours, but it felt like something clicked between them.

Sherlock could see a small tremble in John's throat. Smiling, he shook his head No.

_Funny, I'd pegged him as a bit of a lady's man,_ Sherlock thought. He cleared his throat, "What about you?" He asked, hoping he sounded as nonchalant and repetitive as he thought he did.

John frowned, his eyes losing their twinkling gleam as he remembered that last night with him.

* * *

"I'm sorry, John, I just can't do this anymore! You've changed!" he yelled, grabbing armfuls of clothing and stuffing it into the suitcase on the bed. "You should've never gone to Afghanistan!"

"You encouraged me to go!" John protested, keeping his voice and body as steady as possible.

"Yeah, well," he scoffed. I didn't expect this to happen!"

"What did you expect?" John wondered, his leg throbbing terribly.

"Not for you to become a coward and a weakling because of a little scrap on your shoulder!"

* * *

He shifted in his chair, fighting off tears in his eyes, contemplating whether or not to say anything. "Uhm...yeah, for a while. We're not together anymore, haven't been for awhile," he admitted, watching the swirls of foam in his tea.

Sherlock felt the mood change in the room. He'd asked too much. "Oh w-what happened? If you don t mind me asking?" he stuttered, not being able to concentrate on his words, due to the overwhelming fact that John was single and _gay_._ "I shouldn't be happy about this. He's clearly heartbroken.. I'm a terrible human being_," Sherlock mentally kicked himself, as he moved to a more comfortable position on the sofa.

John watched as Sherlock moved away and instantly regretted opening his mouth.

_"Way to go, John! You just had to open your bloody mouth and blabber about that! He's obviously not gay nor interested."_

"Dammit," he muttered, knowing Sherlock wouldn't see and be able to translate what he said. He folded up on himself, drawing his knees to his chest and rested his chin. His appetite for tea was gone and he sat there, staring blankly out the window.

Sherlock was a bit hurt that John didn't even bother to answer his question. Oh well, it was sort of invasive for someone he'd just met. "It's uh It's about dinner time. There's a great Thai place up the street. Want to go?" He asked loudly to get John's attention.

John jolted out of his fetal position at the sound of Sherlock s voice. He considered saying lying and saying No , but then they d sit here longer in awkward silence. His stomach answered for him, grumbling so hard it made his sides ache.

"Sure thing. Lead the way," he said, standing up.


	2. Getting Acquainted

Ch 2.

"It isn't too far of a walk," Sherlock said, putting on his favourite and only scarf, "Nothing your leg can't handle," he added with a gentle smile. He hoped the smile wasn't too much.

Normally, Sherlock was never this friendly; he was usually awkward and aloof in front of strangers, but there was something about John…he could trust the older man.

He headed for the door, holding it open for John to follow.

"Thanks," John muttered, grinning. Though it had been a few months since Jason, his ex, had stormed out on him, it felt nice to have someone who cared for him. Sherlock practically bounced down the stairs, waiting anxiously at the bottom as John hobbled down, using the railing and his cane for support.

"That's a nice jacket," he commented as they headed down the street. "Where'd you get it?"

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and typed. _~'My brother, Mycroft, gave it to me for my birthday last year. –SH~ _

He sent to the text to John's phone rather than showing him directly, because he didn't want to disrupt the even flow of walking John currently had. It seemed as though, when John's mind was somewhere other than his leg, his limp wasn't as prominent. Sherlock decided that it was hardly psychosomatic.

John jumped at the buzz of his phone in his pocket. He snorted and looked at Sherlock. "That was nice of him," he said, admiring the coat. "Is your brother, erm...rich?"

He hoped it didn't come across sounding hopeful or anxious. Growing up, John never had the luxury of having nice things in life, mostly hand-me-downs and thrift store clothing.

Even in the military, he didn't get much, which he felt might've been another reason Jason left. "Not that that matters," he added before Sherlock could reply. "Just curious is all."

Sherlock focused on John's lips, and tried to walk at the same time.

_~Yes. He's quite wealthy, and not afraid to show it. He works for the British government. In fact, he practically is the British government.~ _

He laughed silently to himself, Sherlock was far from rich. The only money he had was the little check he got each month from his father's estate after his death. He also got paid a small sum for the help he was on some of the stranger cases he worked.

John pulled out his phone, noticing every time Sherlock read his lips, he tripped over his feet. "God, now we're behaving like teenagers."

_~The government? Wow, that's impressive. What do you do for a living?~ _He hit 'send' and watched out of the corner of his eye for Sherlock's screen to light up.

_~Like I said earlier- I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world, in fact. (I made up the job.) It's mostly freelance, but I get paid occasionally.~ _

They approached the restaurant, and Sherlock entered, holding the door open for his friend. They were sat at a table near a window, secluded from the other people.

"Consulting detective? So...like Scotland Yard work?" John asked, taking a seat by the window across from Sherlock. "CSI stuff?"

The restaurant was fairly empty, save for a few couples scattered about. He was glad Sherlock chose a spot where they could be alone.

He didn't want anyone hearing their conversation for some odd reason.

Sherlock grinned and nodded. _~It's quite fun. Solving murders, various crimes. The really twisted ones are the best.~ _

A waiter came by, and Sherlock pointed to what he wanted on the menu, and gestured to John, allowing him to order.

"Uhh," John quickly glanced at the menu and ordered an appetizer, the cheapest one they had, and handed his menu over. "I don't know if I'd use 'fun' to describe murder, but okay. So you show up at the crime scene and...do what? Figure out how they died so newspapers can write the obituary?"

Sherlock thought for a moment_, ~Somewhat. I figure out how they died, who killed them, why they killed them; things of that nature. Mostly to help catch the murderer or to put the victim's family at ease, rather than for the papers.~ _He slid the phone across the table for John to see. He quickly pulled it back and added, _'John, I know we've only just met and all, but you really didn't have to order the smallest thing on the menu.'_

"Wasn't that hungry," he lied when Sherlock handed the phone to him. He was rather hungry, all he had today was the coffee Mike bought him and the tea he just shared.

"And how do you figure all that stuff out anyway? Do you do that thing like you did with me today? You look at someone and can tell them their life story?"

Sherlock nodded and started speaking without realizing, "Yes. Anyone could do it, really. Just pay attention to the smallest of details, and make an educated guess based off that and its surroundings. Deductions."

After noticing he'd been speaking aloud, his hand flew to his mouth, and clamped over it. He prayed he hadn't embarrassed John, but with the tinge of red to his cheeks, he knew had_. 'Sorry. That was a mistake,' _he texted John.

The restaurant was so quiet, it made Sherlock sound as if he had purposely projected his voice to be so loud and a few people stared. Someone cleared their throat uncomfortably.

"Who let the freak in!?"

John balled his hands into fists and focused in on the bastard who said that: a chunky, bald man. "Yeah, I'm wondering the same thing too, mate!"

That shut the man up and John faced Sherlock, a proud grin on his face.

Sherlock felt his face flush, seeing John yell something unintelligible at a man across the restaurant.

_~I really am sorry. That was an accident.~_

He wanted to ask what John said, but he didn't really care; he knew what it was about. Sherlock got that shit all the time. Someone would say something rude and childish, and someone else would stick up for Sherlock. He knew they were just trying to be nice, but it only made him feel helpless. He could stand up for himself, so that's exactly what he did.

Sherlock calmly pushed his chair away from the table, and approached the man John yelled at. He got close to his face, leaning on the table with both hands, and said through clenched teeth, "If you have something to say, say it to my face," he slurred.

The man glared and rose to his feet, towering over Sherlock. In his peripheral vision, he saw the waitress walking with a tray and shoved Sherlock roughly, "Watch it, dummy!"

Sherlock stumbled back and knocked the waitress over, sending the plate of noodles, his noodles, and John's bowl of soup flying up and then down, the plate smashing into tiny pieces. Food splattered all over him, staining his jacket as the man roared with laughter.

"You really should put a warning on him," he said to John, heading for the door.

Just as he reached for the handle, John stuck out his good leg and tripped him, sending the man face first into the glass door. A satisfying crunch filled the room and a red smear appeared. The man staggered back, clutching his broken and bleeding nose.

"Careful mate, it says pull, not push," John remarked, eliciting a few chuckles from witnesses.

He turned to Sherlock, who was still on the floor covered in food. John's expression fell when he saw Sherlock's infuriated expression on his face. In that moment, guilt drowned him like a tsunami wave and he bit his lip, knowing the moment this man got to his feet, he was dead meat.

"Listen mate, I'm really-"

Next, John found himself flying through the air onto the pavement. He rolled several times, hitting his leg, and groaned as he struggled to his feet.

"I don't wanna see you or that freak here again, ya hear!?" the manager yelled, slamming the door.

He pulled out a rag and angrily wiped the blood stain away. John tried to catch his breath as he headed down the street.

It was starting to get cold and that only added to the pain in his leg. When he found a bench, he sat down and rolled up his jeans. "Shit," he breathed, as he examined the gash.

It wasn't deep, but it might need stitches. Denim stung like a bitch as he yanked his jean leg back down and hailed a taxi.

* * *

When half an hour had passed and John wasn't back yet, Sherlock started to worry. He contemplated what to text and after a minute of debating with himself, he settled on:

_~Come home. –SH~_

It didn't sound too personal, or too worried. Not too guilty. He sent the message, and stood from the couch. He felt his stomach grumble, seeing as he was never able to eat his dinner.

He walked into the kitchen, threw open the fridge door, and peered inside. Sherlock pushed the jar of eyeballs over, and pulled out some jam. He toasted a bagel, and spread the jam over it.

He walked back to the sofa, growing more and more guilty every second that John didn't text back.

* * *

John laid there patiently as the nurse stitched him up. "That's a pretty nasty cut," she commented. "What'd you do?"

John shook his head, "Just defended a friend is all."

She smiled. "That was nice of you."

Neither of them spoke as she patched John up. She was cute, he admitted, skinny, blonde, blue eyes but...he wasn't sure where he stood emotionally...sexually.

Sighing as she cleaned up, John hobbled to his feet.

"Thanks, appreciate it," he said and headed out. In the front room, he noticed it had been 4 hours since Sherlock stormed out of the restaurant. Crap.

He pulled out his phone and unlocked it to find multiple texts, missed calls, and voice mails from the same number. It had to be Sherlock's.

As he listened to each voicemail, Sherlock's tone grew more and more panicky until he was nearly incomprehensible.

He managed to make out "Where are you?" and his name and John broke into a sprint to get back home.

* * *

Hours had passed and Sherlock was in a full panic. He paced the flat restlessly, unsure of what to do. He had gone out looking for John several times, ironically finding the man from the restaurant. Sherlock had backed him into an alleyway and had a face off. He left the alley unscathed and proud, telling himself this was his little secret.

When he got back to the flat, he waited until several hours had passed.

Bounding down the stairs, he pounded on Mrs. Hudson's door and demanded she call John.

* * *

Just as the homey sight of Baker Street came into view, John's phone went off again.

"Christ Almighty!" he whipped it out. "I'm out front, Sherlock, calm down," he said. "Just had a little accident and went to the hospital, it's nothing serious."

Mrs. Hudson relayed the message to Sherlock who opened the front door to find a frazzled John.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He saw the gaping hole in John's trousers, and the scrape stretching across his cheek. Sherlock bent down to examine John's leg, opening the hole in his jeans, and noticing the tiny black stitches weaving in and out of his leg.

Sherlock sniffed, standing up, "I'm sorry I got you into this."

The poor man looked so worked up and disarrayed, he was on the verge of tears. John put his hand on Sherlock's should reassuringly. "I'm fine really, it's just a scratch. I'm didn't mean to scare you like that; just lost track of time is all."

He smiled, hoping it would calm down Sherlock. "Promise it won't happen again."

Sherlock nodded, knowing this could've been avoided if he hadn't opened his big mouth. He shut down and dashed up the stairs, angered at himself.

John watched and sighed, turning to Mrs. Hudson. "Does he always do this?"

She sighed, "Yes, when he thinks something is his fault, and that's all the time. I try to tell him otherwise, but he won't listen. I'm down here if you need anything."

John headed up to find Sherlock curled up into a ball on the couch. He sat down at the edge by his feet.

"Hey," John put his hand on Sherlock's ankle, squeezing gently. "Will you look at me, please?"

Sherlock jumped at his touch and spat, "What do you want? You already helped enough tonight!" He hated being babied by anyone and John should've known better. He turned away, as he always did.

He always managed to push people away somehow.

John sighed and let him go. He knew this mentality all too well.

You're angry and you lash out, telling whoever is there to go away when in reality you want them to stay, but at the same time you want to be alone...just for a while.

Making sure Sherlock could see his lips, John said, "Okay, I'll be at my hotel. Call or text me whenever, I don't care if it's 3am." With that, he got up, put his jacket on, and climbed down the stairs.

Sherlock didn't move, wanting to lay there and left John walk away, but he surprised himself by jumping up and running after him. "John wait!" he yelled, reaching out to stop him at the bottom of the stairs. "Please don't go, we can talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," John said, putting his hand over Sherlock's. "I just did what I felt was right. I didn't mean to belittle you or anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away, shoving it in his pocket. "I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself. I could've taken him alone without you getting hurt. But...thank you."

John smiled and shifted on his feet. "I'll try to remember that next time." He took a breath and glanced down. "Do you mind if I stay here tonight? I haven't had this much excitement in a while and this damned thing-" he gestured to his leg "is taking its toll."

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled. "It's your flat too, you know?" He held out his elbow for John to take. "Shall we?"

For a moment, John wanted to refuse Sherlock's help, but he knew that would make him a hyppocrite, so he shut his mouth and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's and they made their way back upstairs. From behind the stairs, Mrs. Hudson watched them and smiled before retreating back into her room.

* * *

"Tea?" Sherlock asked as they unlocked arms.

"Ooh, why not?" he said, grabbing the British flag pillow from his chair and tossing it on the couch. There was a blanket folded over the top that he could use for now. As he sat down, he relaxed, sinking into the cushions. He hadn't realized just how exhausted he was from the events of today. As Sherlock bustled about in the kitchen, John closed his eyes, just for a moment.

He listened to Sherlock bang around the kitchen, starting up the kettle, spilling the hotwater and cursing, before he felt a gentle poke in his arm. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing over him, holding two cups of tea in reddened hands.

"Thanks," John took one and sipped. "Ah, damn! Do you like it hot? Your tea?"

Frowning, Sherlock took a sip of his own, scorching his tongue. "Damn it!"

Chuckling, John blew on his tea. "It's okay. Practice makes perfect, right?" He yawned and stretched, sinking further into the chair. Maybe it was the drowsiness, but for some reason, Sherlock cursing was...rather cute.

"If you're tired," Sherlock said, standing up. "You can go to bed. Mrs. Hudson has a spare duvet you can borrow." Once John was settled on the couch, tucked in and resembling a comfy hedheghog curled up, Sherlock bid him goodnight and went to bed.

* * *

Sherlock woke up the next morning to his phone vibrating madly, signaling it's time to get out of bed. Sherlock groaned, and put on his hearing aids like he did every morning. He didn't wear them all day, only until 11am since it caused him severe headches. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he exited his bedroom, and walked in the living room, seeing John sleeping happily on the sofa.

_God, he looks adorable._

Sherlock thought he'd impress John with a big breakfast when he woke up, so Sherlock set off attempting to make eggs, toast, breakfast sausages, and tea. After an hour of banging pans, and dropping things, he finally had a finished product that actually looked somewhat like breakfast!

On the couch, John fidgeted, lifting the duvet to call out, "Would ya mind keeping it down!?"

Sherlock stopped and looked at the cream colored blob on the couch. He smiled and set the tray down, waiting for John to wake up. When he proded the blanket again, John's hand appeared and he surprised Sherlock by using sign langauge to spell out the word:

M-I-N-U-T-E-S.

Sherlock laughed, covering his mouth, amused. He sat patiently and gave John 10 minutes.

John threw back the duvet, unaware his hair was spiked in every direction as he sat up. He twisted his back, making it pop and crack, releasing the tension and relaxing sore muscles from sleeping on the couch.

_His hair looks adorable...he always does. ~What is wrong with me? I never think like this..~ _Sherlock wanted to rid himself of the mushy thoughts, but he couldn't. He genuinely was beginning to like John. "So.. Breakfast. I made some," he stated.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the smell of breakfast flooded John's senses. "Smells good. What'd you make?" he asked, cracking his neck. Glancing in the kitchen, he saw the sink full of pots and pans, but two plates loaded with eggs, sauceage, toast, and a cup of tea.

Turning the Sherlock, John couldn't help but smile approvingly. "You did all this yourself?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, sorry about the noise I made."

"And yet, you can't boil water for tea," John joked, taking a plate from him. He scooped up a small amount and ate it, munching happily. "Mmm...this is delicious!"

Sherlock shrugged, pursing his lips to keep a laugh from escasping. "Nobody's perfect," he commented, taking his time to enjoy every bite of food. It was rare that he made breakfast, especially one as good as this. "It _is_ rather good," he agreed.

_"Cheeky bastard,"_ John glanced at him, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "So...do you have an office you work at? Or do you work from home?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I only work when they call me in. Like I said, I got a flatmate because working freelance doesn't exactly pay the bills." He smirked, "Are you going to be looking for a job?" He asked, hoping John noticed how much more clear his voice sounded. Sherlock had been feeling the overwhelming urge to impress John, and he was afraid he knew why.

John set down his cup. "Suppose I should," he agreed. "Would certainly help out. I don't suppose you have a job application for a consulting detective, do you?" John got up and carried their plates to the kitchen, setting it in the sink. "I'll clean up since you made breakfast."

Sherlock handed him the plate, and signed a thank you. "If I get called in on a case, I don't see why you couldn't come with me. Maybe if you impress Leth-Lethrod..._Lestrade_, he'll let you be my parter!"

John grinned, listening and watching Sherlock forms his words. The hearing aids did seem to help a bit. He ran hot water and put the plates in to soak. "May as well do something to earn my right to stay. Besides, if I'm gonna hang around, it may as well be my duty." As he started scrubing dishes, John's mind began to wonder. Perhaps it was the way his mother raised him, but John found a strange comfort in having his hands submerged in warm water, scrubbing plates and setting them down the drying rack.

Sherlock observed John, with a quizzical expression. _"Who enjoys doing dishes? I guess John does..."_ he talked to himself when he felt his phone vibrate.

_~Case. 4 suicides. -GL~_

"John!" he jumped to his feet happily. "We've got a case. Get dressed, let's go!"


	3. Case 1: A Study in Pink

Ch3.

"A case?" John set the final dish on the rack. He tugged on his sweater from last night, since all of his clothes were at the hotel across town. "I don't know how I'll be much help-"

"Hurry up! There's a suicide!" Sherlock ushered him out the door, giddy with excitement. He called a cab, flailing his arms anxiously. They hopped in, with Sherlock showing the man his phone with the address, and they sped off.

John gave him a puzzled look. "You're excited about a suicide? Sherlock...someone's dead. You shouldn't be happy about that. What about their families, friends, lovers?" Since joining the military, John never considered what it meant when he took a life, until the day he spared one because he'd begged him for mercy, that he had children to raise.

Sherlock sighed and settled down a bit, typing away on his phone before handing it to John.

_~Come on...you've seen enough death and trauma in your lifetime. Don't you want to see more?~_

"He's right...," John admitted to himself, leaning back in the seat. Something about it...set his blood on fire, the adrenaline of seeing fresh blood, the hyperactive alertness he got. Did that make him a sick fuck for thinking so?

_~God, yes.~_ he texted and handed the phone back to Sherlock.

He smirked and chuckled under his breath, hoping out of the cab as they arrived at the crime scene. Donovan was standing at the police line, arms crossed.

"Freak," she mouthed as he approached.

Ignoring her, Sherlock walked up to Greg Lestrade and signed._ What happened?_

_Woman, dead. In that room._

As Sherlock practically skipped into the building, Donovan scoffed and turned to John. "And who are you?"

"I'm uh, John Watson. I'm with Sherlock," he replied. When Donovan made a face, John realized what he'd said. "Well, I'm not with him, like that...I'm his colleague."

Donovan sneered, "If I were you, I'd stay away from that freak. He gets off on this stuff, you know," she gestured to the crime scene around them. "One day, solving them won't be enough. One day, it'll be him who's committed the murder."

"That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?" John snapped back. It wasn't even noon yet and he wasn't in the mood for this: people putting down Sherlock. "Besides, he seems to be doing a better job than you."

She rolled her eyes, "He's an amateur. I wouldn't be surprised if he spoke to the killers before coming to the crime scene, just to impress everyone with his "great deduction skills"," Donovan said bitterly.

John was about to rip her a new one when the man Sherlock had been signing with walked over. "You're John Watson, right? Come on in," he said, lifting the tape up for him to walk under. He gladly sprinted away, shooting daggers at Donovan as he headed for the door Sherlock disappeared into.

"What's her problem?" he asked the man bitterly. "How dare she talk about him like that."

"Personally, I think she's jealous that she's a trained professional, but Sherlock is still better than her," he replied. "I'm Greg, by the way." Lestrade led him instead where they put on protective body suits and slowly went up the stairs and into the room containing Sherlock and a dead body. Greg ushered John in, and stood back.

Sherlock looked up and waved, his lips turning up in a smile. John pursed his lips, trying to keep a straight face. He walked up next to Sherlock and glanced down at the dead woman. "Well?"

Sherlock pointed to the key points on the body he'd deduced, giving John an expectant look. He shrugged. "I don't know."

Sighing and shifting impatiently on his feet, Sherlock whipped out his phone. "God, what goes on in ordinary people's minds!?"

_~Her coat is wet all over, even on the inside of her collar. Her jewelry is clean except for the dirty and scratched wedding ring, it shows she's been unhappily married for at least 10 years. The inside of the ring however, is clean and shiny. She removes it regularly; a serial adulterer.~_

John's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, how did you figure all that out in a minute?" John asked. He looked at the woman and only saw she was in her mid-thirties, face down dead, and wearing a horrendous shade of pink.

"Deductions," Sherlock said simply. "Tell me what you think happened."

John held his leg carefully as he hunkered down, examining her, his doctor instincts taking over. He stood back up so Sherlock could read his lips. "Well, can't smell alcohol on her breath, but I'd say asphyxiation, probably choked on her vomit and was moved here."

After a moment of silence he added, "How was that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Very far off, but good try."

"Tell me what you have," Lestrade said, walking in beside them.

Sherlock stood, and dusted off his pants before replying, his hands signing quickly to keep up with his speech. "The victim was a professional woman, probably in the media, considering all of the pink clothing. A serial adulterer. And was coming from Cardiff. Her clothes were wet, but not freshly so, the rain had to have been two to three hours away from London; since the inside of her collar was wet, but her umbrella was dry, it says there was rain, but too much wind for an umbrella. Looking at the meteorology for today, the only area with heavy wind and rain was Cardiff," he finished with a proud grin.

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed. "I would've never gotten any of that!"

Sherlock blushed, pursing his lips to hide a smile. _Thank you._

"Now where's her case?" he asked out loud to Lestrade.

Lestrade's frowned in confusion. "There was no suitcase. Why do you think there's a suitcase?"

Sherlock pointed to her leg. "There's flecks of mud there, obviously from a suitcase splashing her leg in rain puddles."

John shook his head in amazement. "That's incredible how he does this." If it hadn't been for his speech impairment and signing, John wouldn't have been able to tell that Sherlock was disabled.

"There is no suitcase," Lestrade said loudly, crossing his arms over his chest. "We never found a suitcase anywhere."

_Are you certain? Maybe it's-_

Sherlock stopped, hands frozen mid-air before clapping them together. "Oh! OH of course!" Suddenly, without another word, he dashed out of the room, leaving them all stunned.

John glanced at Lestrade. "Does he do this often?"

Greg chuckled. "You'll get used to it. So...you're a colleague of his? How'd you two meet?" he asked as they descended the stairs.

"Uhh...mutual friend introduced us," he said, stripping out of his blue suit.

Outside, John caught sight of Donovan standing there. "Excuse me," he said to Greg and strided over to her. "Well, you were right about one thing," he said loudly to her.

"And what's that?" she snapped back, folding her arms over her chest.

"You lot don't consult amateurs," he beamed before walking away.

"Fuck you!" she yelled at him. "Don't forget what I told you earlier!"

* * *

Sherlock was surprised he got a cab ride home, considering he was covered in grime and filth from dumpster diving and he carried a bright pink suitcase. The unfortunate man who did pick him up gagged the entire way, begging Sherlock to get out. Once at Baker Street, he stripped his long coat off and headed into his room, searching the suitcase for anything-a mobile phone.

Vibrations from the door slamming and footsteps indicated John was home. When the shorter man walked through the door, crinkling his nose at the awful smell, Sherlock stood up and beamed.

"Look what I found, John!" he gestured to the suitcase.

John froze mid-step, gawking at the scene before him. "Maybe that Donovan bitch was right..."

When he looked up and saw John's concerned and horrified expression, Sherlock's smile fell flat. Awkwardly shifting on his feet, he repeated, "I...uh, I found the suitcase."

John nodded, keeping his distance. "I see that..." He walked slowly towards the sofa, away from Sherlock mainly for the smell and panic in case he decided to attack. John scanned the room, trying to find something-anything to defend himself with._ "Is that a harpoon?"_ he wondered, noticing a long stick hidden under a sheet.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh grow up, John! I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm certainly not the killer!"

"Never said you were," John replied, still keeping his distance, having to remind himself that they'd only met the other day. Sherlock dug through the suitcase and pulled out a pink cell phone, matching the same shade as the case.

"Finally!"

"Finally...what?" John relaxed just a bit. It was still odd that Sherlock was the only one who knew about the suitcase and yet here he was not even an hour after he left the crime scene. It didn't make sense unless he was a damn brilliant serial killer, but John knew for a fact Sherlock had been at the lab when one of the murders occurred, so...it couldn't be him. He stepped forward and stood beside Sherlock, looking over his arm at the phone.

"So this means...what?"

Sherlock was about to answer when the phone vibrated and a message appeared on screen.

_~Come outside.~_

He gasped and dashed for the door, leaving John to scramble after him. Outside was a cab with the cabbie casually leaning against the door. He had short white hair tucked under a cap and torn blue jeans.

"What the hell?" John asked quietly, knowing Sherlock couldn't hear him. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for safety.

"Get in the cab," the mysterious man demanded.

Sherlock scoffed, "And why should we take commands from you?"

The cabbie pulled a gun out if his coat pocket, and took a step forward, "You'll do as I tell you."

Sherlock glanced down at John, and raised his eyebrows. He shrugged and stepped towards the cab. John took a large step and put himself between Sherlock and the cabbie.

"I don't think so," he stated. "And besides, that's a fake gun," John added with a bit of pride. "It's rather hard to fool an army doctor."

Sherlock cursed himself mentally for not noticing the gun was fake. "John, perhaps we should listen to him."

"Are you insane?" John hissed under his breath, glancing at the cabbie, who was getting impatient. Sherlock shrugged. "Suit yourself,"and proceeded to climb into the cab.

"What!?" John yelled as the cab sped off.

He ran after it, forgetting the stitches in his legs. He cursed and pulled out his phone. "Hello, yes, I need to report a kidnapping. 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was kidnapped by a cabbie, send Lestrade!" he got it all out in one long breath, gasping.

His heart raced as he struggled to his feet and staggered in the direction the taxi went. He knew it turned right, but after that, he was lost. This was not good, definitely not good. He turned the corner and saw the cabbie, at least he hoped it was, make another turn and head for the outskirts of town.

Praying luck was on his side, John Watson broke out into a run, his stitched limb long forgotten. All that mattered was insuring no harm came to Sherlock from that damned cabbie; and when John got his hands on that man, oh he'd be begging for mercy.

* * *

Sherlock shifted in the back of the cab uncomfortably. At night, with little to no light, he was practically blind and deaf. A feeling he never enjoyed. The cab pulled to an abrupt stop, and Sherlock's door opened. The cabbie grabbed his arm, and pulled him into a tall building. Sherlock looked around frantically before he realized exactly where they were. He put a hand inside his pocket and texted John with expert fingers,

_~We're at 438 Billings Street. Come qui-_

"Ah, ah, ah," the cabbie warned him, snatching the phone and smashing it on the ground. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm and shoved him through the doors of the building. "Your little friend can't help you now."

* * *

John cursed himself for losing sight of the cab when his phone went off. "You brilliant bastard!" he exclaimed, heading back to Baker Street quickly to grab his gun. Making sure it was fully loaded, John punched in the address to his GPS and ran off, his military mentality taking over.

* * *

"Now.." The man began, "Do you want to know how I killed those people?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded, "Obviously."

The man grinned, a sick grin, "Well, I gave them an ultimatum, you see." He put two small bottles on the table, each containing identical pills. "I told them they could choose. Either this bottle, or that one. One of these holds a poison, the other holds a plain, old sugar pill." The man held up a finger, "But here's the best part. Whichever they choose, I take the other one. So.. Want to play the game?"

Sherlock struggled to keep up, the man was speaking in incredibly fast, and barely moving his lips. He nodded sharply.

"I'm surprised you caught all that," the cabbie said, keeping eye contact with Sherlock. "I imagine it's gotta be a pain in the arse, being deaf and all. Is that why you've got that maid looking after you? Nice looking fellow, rather handsome. Where'd you find him?" He watched Sherlock's reaction, laughing as Sherlock got defensive.

"He's not a maid! Lets get back to the matter at hand. You want me to choose a bottle, yeah? How do I know they aren't both poison?" He asked, enunciating his words very carefully.

* * *

John turned the corner, seeing the two identical buildings with the cab parked between them. Both had lights illuminated inside, so it was impossible to tell which one Sherlock was in. He walked around the cab, trying to find footprints when something caught his eyes. Sherlock's phone, broken in the dirt. He picked it up, examining it before eyeing the building on the right.

They had to be there.

John used his good shoulder to break down the doors to the second floor and started checking every door for Sherlock. As he found another empty room, panic started to fester in the back of his mind. _What if he chose the wrong building? What if he was too late and another innocent man died because he wasn't fast enough?_ dozens of what-if's crossed his mind as he dashed up the stairs to the third floor.

* * *

The cabbie smirked. "Use that little brain of yours and deduce it." He sat back amused, and watched Sherlock's eyes dart to and fro.

"Here's a hint," the cabbie added, pushing the left bottle towards Sherlock. "That's my final move. Now it's your turn to be murder #5."

Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair. "Why are you doing this? Murdering innocent people? For fun? For money? For-" he stopped, eyes widening. "Oooh...you're dying."

Judging by the cabbie's expression, Sherlock knew he was right. "Who is paying you?" he asked, leaning forward in interest, fiddling with the bottle.

The cabbie smirked. "Someone...a man pays me for each murder and the money goes to my kids."

Now things were getting interesting.

"I see," Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet. "You don't have much time, do you? So there's no reason for me to stay here. You can't stop me, especially with that fake gun in your jacket."

"Of course you could. You could just walk right out of here, and be on your merry way to go live happily ever after with your boyfriend. But you won't do that, will you? You're just dying to know which bottle is which." He pushed a bottle closer to Sherlock, "Go on...choose." He demanded.

* * *

John kicked open the door to the only lit room in the hall, sighing in frustration when he found it empty. In the corner of his eye, he caught movement outside the window. Running to it, his blood ran cold. In the building opposite, was Sherlock and the cabbie! They were sitting and by the looks of it...talking? Sherlock was saying something, John couldn't read lips as well as he could. He started to back up when Sherlock held up a bottle and shook a pill into his hands.

_Oh God..._ John fumbled for his gun. That lunatic was going to poison himself and die and for what!? To solve a crime?_ "No you don't. I didn't just meet someone-someone who might actually give a damn about me, someone who looks beyond my leg, only to have them die so soon."_ His leg throbbed when he thought of it and John didn't dare look down at it, but he felt his jean leg stick to his skin.

He raised his gun in both hands, holding it steady before aiming and firing a single shot.

* * *

"Go on," the cabbie egged Sherlock. "You get off on this, don't you? You get high solving crimes, putting yourself in danger, just to prove you're right. Or is it so you forget you're one step away from being in a special needs facility?"

Sherlock's blood ran cold as he realized just how right the man was. It terrified and disgusted him at how accurate it was. Was he really that easy to read? He let out a sigh of exasperation and grabbed the bottle farthest from him, popping the lid off.

He leaned closer, resting his arms on the table. "We're not so different, you and I." He tapped his temple. "Brain aneurysm, right here. Any moment could be my last, which is why I do this. To prove a point...and just a little bit for fun," he added, showing his crooked teeth.

"Interesting choice you made," the cabbie commented, holding the pill to his mouth. "Are you _dying_ to know if you got it right or wrong?"

He smiled at his little joke as they raised the pills to their mouths simultaneously when the glass window shattered and something red hot ripped through his neck, tearing the left vertebral artery. His body went limp and he slumped to the floor, crimson spilling everywhere as he bled out.

Sherlock's mouth fell open. He looked in the direction the bullet came from, to see nothing but an empty window from the building across from them. Sherlock felt the man grab his ankle, gasping in pain. Not wanting to miss his chance, Sherlock put his face next to the cabbie's.

"Tell me who you work for," he demanded.

"No," Sherlock saw the man say.

He stood up and pressed his foot into the gunshot wound on his neck, "Tell me who you work for!" He yelled, almost unintelligibly. The man's eyes fluttered, and Sherlock pressed harder.

"M-Moriarty," he whispered, his eyes shutting for good. Sherlock knew that name... But where from?

Sherlock turned to leave, when he felt the weight of the pill still in his hand. He opened his palm, and held it up to the light. Taking a deep breath, he put it in his mouth, swallowed, and waited.


	4. Attractions

Ch 4. Attractions

Police and an ambulance came screeching around the corner and crew unloaded. The scene was busy enough for John to slip away unnoticed to dispose of his gun. It was a damn shame losing it, it was a nice one, but they'd find the bullet, trace its origin and find out John had fired it. The last thing he needed was to end up in prison after returning to civilian life so soon.

When he returned to the crime scene, nurses were carting a body away on a stretcher and he held his breath, praying it wasn't Sherlock. John approached the yellow tape and saw Lestrade talking to someone behind the ambulance. He called out and waved, hoping to catch his attention.

"Did you find him? The killer, I mean. Is Sherlock okay?" he asked, as Lestrade lifted the yellow tape for him.

"Yeah, we found him. Can you believe he actually took the pill? That bloody idoit!" Lestrade snapped, rubbing his eyes. "He's in the ambulance."

With his breath hitched, John walked over to the open doors of the vechile, mentally preparing himself for the gruesome sight.

There...was Sherlock with a bright orange blanket being forced on his shoulders. "What the hell is this for?"

"It's for shock," the paramedic replied.

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock scoffed, turning to see John. A stupid, goofy grin spread across his lips. "John!" He jumped to his feet, blanket falling away, and whispered in his ear, "Thanks for coming to my resue. Good shot."

"You...are a bloody fool," John scolded him, facing Sherlock straight on so he could read John's lips. "You actually took the damn pill and almost killed yourself! How brainless are you?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, I took the right one! Then I took the poisoned one. I wanted to see if he really was bluffing."

John put his face in his hands. "God...you really are insane, aren't you? What the hell do you think you were doing? Trying to prove a point or what?"

The taller man shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Hungry? I'm starving!" he started to walk away when John grabbed him by his arm.

"What are you doing?" he hissed. "Are you just gonna walk away from a crime scene?"

Again, Sherlock shrugged. "No one will notice. I'm a consulting detective with my partner leaving the scene, no big deal." When they reached the street, he hailed down a cab. John leaned forward to get a good look at the cabbie before climbing in.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pulling out his phone, sent a text.

_~Please, not every cabbie in London is set out to kill us.~_

He saw John laugh under his breath after reading his message and quickly sent another.

_~Why did you shoot him? I had the situation perfectly under control!~_

For several moments, the cab was silent. John read the text, contemplating over his answer and decided to be honest.

_~Because...I thought he was going to kill you if you didn't take the pill. Happy now?~_

Sherlock smiled when his screen lit up. He smirked, and snuck a glance at John. He really did save his life. All he really wanted to do was gather John in his arms, hug him and than him, but he refrained. They arrived at home, and walked up the stairs in silence.

"You got anything stronger than tea?" John called from the bottom of the stairs, since Sherlock practically flew up them. He took one step and collapsed, scrapping his chin on the edge of the stair, cutting it.

He cried out in pain, vision blurring slightly and he remembered: the torn stitches in his leg and the blood soaked jean leg that had dried.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned, shivering at the trickle of blood down his throat from the new injury on his chin before his vision went black.

* * *

Sherlock was in the kitchen, searching his alcohol cabinet when he felt vibrations from the staircase. "John?" he called out, heading through the door. He peeked down and saw his new flat mate collapsed and unconscious, leg bleeding freely.

"John!" he jumped down the stairs hurriedly and croutched by him. "Shit..."

Sherlock scooped him up in his arms, and slowly walked upstairs. He laid John out on the couch, and removed his trousers to get a better look at the wound.

He ran to the toilet to get the first aid kit, and came back to wipe sterilizer on the cuts. He produced a needle and thread from the box, and stitched John up like new. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but when he was a child, his mother had taught him how to sew. Needless to say, he never sewed a sweater in his life; only gashes on his body during investigations. After disinfecting his tools, Sherlock wiped the blood from John's chin, and put a cool cloth on his forehead.

Half an hour later, he felt John stir. "Hey...A-Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet and shaky.

"W-what happened? he sat up, a cold cloth falling from his forehead into his lap, which he notes lacked trousers, but thankfully his pants were still on. "What did you do?"

Sherlock felt more shaken over this incident rather than the one that happened earlier. "You fell down the stairs. By the looks of it, you fell off the first step. You uh.. Hit your head, it knocked you unconscious, and ripped your stitches out. So I brought you up, and redid your stitches," Sherlock managed with a tight smile. "Your trousers are ruined from the rip and the blood, so you can wear a pair of mine, since your clothes are still at your hotel. Also, you'll be staying here tonight."

John's mouth was agape. "You-oh God...well thank goodness no one saw that," he muttered, falling back into the couch, forgetting that his red underwear and firm, toned legs were on full display for Sherlock. The younger man was definitely taking the sight in, noting the atrophy of John's bad leg; a faint pink blush blooming on his cheeks.

"You used a sterile needle, right?" John asked, eyeing him quizzically.

Sherlock scoffed, "Of course I did! I'm not an idoit!"

He watched the man sitting at his feet, his puppy eyes of every color in the spectrum watching, ensuring that John was going to be okay.

"Listen Sherlock...," he whispered, leaning forward. "Thank you...for this. For everything, I suppose. It's just...it's nice to have someone...care," he admitted. "Most people turn away at the thought of having to deal with an invalid from war. Jason certainly did-just...thank you," he whispered, unaware he had leaned closer, close enough to kiss Sherlock's smooth cheek. God, who blessed him with such prominent cheek bones?

Sherlock smiled weakly, "You're welcome, John. It's the least I could do. And forget about Jason, you're not an invalid, and he's not worthy of you. I know we've only known each other for a few days, and no one- not even my mother or my brother, has ever treated me with as much kindness and friendship as you have. So, I should be the one thanking you," Sherlock said, his voice breaking a few times.

John's face was so damn close to his, he could almost just- No. John's not gay. Sherlock was sure of it. Instead, he wrapped his long arms around John's neck and hugged him tight.

"Oop," John was a bit taken back by the sudden embrace. Hiding his disappointment, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's impossibly thin waist, certain he felt ribs sticking out.

"Bloody hell, you're a skeleton," he commented, his lips next to Sherlock's ear, aware he couldn't hear him. Taking a chance, he kissed that ear, settling for that instead. John pulled away. "So...erm...you got anything stronger than tea?"

A shiver went down his spine, but Sherlock figured it was the draft in the flat and smiled, "Vodka, brandy, scotch, bourbon.. What'll it be?" He asked, stepping into the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of scotch, and waited for John's answer. Anything to steer the conversation away from what just happened.

"Glass of bourbon will do nicely," John said, getting to his feet. The searing pain of his leg alerted him, got his blood pumping (preferably away from one organ between his legs) and he wrapped the sheet around his hips for extra precautions. He leaned against the kitchen counter, awaiting his drink.

As soon as Sherlock lifted the bottle away, he snatched the cup and down the bourbon. He coughed at the burn that felt so _fucking_ good and slammed the glass down. "Another, please? If you don't mind," he asked. John wasn't looking to get piss drunk, but a buzz would do nicely. Better than any anesthesia.

Sherlock watched him guzzle the drunk down and laughed, taking the cup away, and giving him the quarter full bottle instead. "Drink up. We haven't got any pain medicine, so this'll have to do."

"Cheers," John raised the bottle and emptied it, wincing at the hard, hot burn the bourbon left. He staggered back to the couch, sheet falling away as he went and plopped down happily. "I expect this story'll be in the papers tomorrow Killer cabbie caught in the streets by the infamous Sherlock Holmes?" the alcohol was starting to take affect and his brain went fuzzy around the edges.

Was the wallpaper black and cream flowers? Really? It must've been Mrs. Hudson's decision.

Sherlock chuckled, seeing the words slurring out of John's mouth. "Go to bed John," he said gently, retreating to his bedroom. As he changed into his pajamas, he felt John stumbling in the kitchen and the door frame vibrate when he leaned against it.

Turning, John stood there, a goofy smile on his lips. It lit his face up, erasing the shadows that crept in his eyes and on his lips. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock sat down on the edge of his bed. "John?"

The older man walked in, sitting at the edge of the bed, a good 3 feet away from Sherlock. He sighed and glanced at Sherlock.

"I haven't had...this much excitement," he hiccuped, "since that awful search and rescue mission outside Kabul. My unit and I were trying to get some fucking idoit rookies out of an imprisonment. We crawled through fucking mountains of sand, and it got," he laughed, snorting, "sand got in places it should never be!"

God, he was drunk and it felt good to let his mind be free.

"Anyways...we found the little buggers all tied up and scared shitless. And you know what the best thing was? It was a prank!" he leaned so far forward from laughing, John slipped off the bed and landed on his bum, hysterical.

"We were still at the base and kidnapped them so we could wipe off their damn grins. Acting like they were impressive little shits; oh lord, it was grand." He chuckled, staring at the floor. "Fucking hell hole, it was, but we managed somehow."

Sherlock sat, quiet. He awkwardly smiled as John rambled on and on. It was hard to tell what he was saying, but Sherlock got the jist of it. Something in Afghanistan, search and rescue, hell hole, and such. He nodded, looking down at man. "That's a great story, John. Now go to bed, please."

John yanked himself up, placing his hands on the bed on either side of Sherlock's hips and met his gaze. "Alright princess," he joked, "I'll let you get your beauty rest."

He leaned in as he stood up and brushed his lips against Sherlock's smooth cheek, the edges of their lips touching briefly. John moved his mouth lower, kissing the curve of his jawline.

When he heard Sherlock inhale sharply, going rigid, John stopped, feeling a cold wave of reality crash over him.

_Shit._

"Right...um-shit, sorry," he mumbled John hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him. _Way to go, Watson! He's not gay, why can't you just leave him alone? You always ruin every nice thing that comes your way!_

Meanwhile, in his room, Sherlock lay frozen in bed, his mouth agape.

_Shit. Maybe John is gay._

That was the first kiss Sherlock had ever received. Throughout school, he knew he didn't like girls, but he didn't know it was okay to like guys. So, naturally, he'd never been kissed. He felt the front of his pajama bottoms tighten, and he groaned. Sure it was just a kiss _on the cheek_, but it was still the most sensual thing he'd ever experienced.

Sherlock thought about John for a while more, before his thoughts wandered to how funny it was to see John drunk. He'd never seen someone_ that_ drunk. Sherlock burst out laughing at the thought of him slurring and stumbling about. It had been nice to see John loosen up a bit, but the idea that he needed alcohol to do so, made Sherlock frown. Hopefully he could change that.

* * *

Out in the living room, John could heard Sherlock giggling and in a huff, pulled the duvet over his drunken head and curled up into a ball. The bloody bastard was mocking him!_ Whatever_ he decided, curling up into a ball again. _I knew he wasn't interested. Probably asexual or something..._ After hours of tossing and turning, drunken exhaustion finally came over him and John knew he was going to have one massive, hellbent hangover.

* * *

Sherlock woke up the next morning, and walked to the kitchen for morning tea. He turned on the kettle, and put in the tea bags. As it was brewing, he sat on the couch, and flipped on the telly. On every news station, there was a different version of last nights case.

Sherlock read the subtitles flowing across the screen with great interest; one said "Sherlock Holmes shoots murderous cabbie," another had a picture of Sherlock sitting in the ambulance, saying "Sherlock Holmes gets shot by murderous cabbie."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head, S_tupid media_. Sherlock went back to the kitchen, and fixed his tea. He noticed John wasn't yet awake, but he remembered he'd be very hung over, so he decided to let him sleep.

* * *

The static from the telly sounded like a fucking avalanche of thumbtacks crashing into his head. "Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he moaned. Even under the covers, John saw white. _That's it,_ he decided,_ "I'm not coming out ever."_ He listened to Sherlock stomp around, though he was probably treading lightly on his toes.

Oh lord, there was something else he had to face. The sensation of Sherlock's smooth skin on his lips was still fresh in his mind. Would the bugger say anything? Was he interested? Of course, he wasn't, John had to remind himself. "_Who'd be interested in someone like me?"_ he wondered.

* * *

When the clock struck 5 pm, Sherlock decided he was bored.

He wandered into the living room, and sat by his couch. He could tell John was asleep, watching the gentle rise and fall of the sheets. Sherlock could've sat there for hours just watching him, but he thought that might be too strange. Instead, he gently poked John's side. "John?" He asked quietly. "Joooohnn?" He drawled. "Wake up."

"Uuuugh," he groaned, pulling the covers up just enough for one eye to peep through. "Wot time isit?"

Sherlock smiled as John peered through the blankets, "It's almost five pm," he whispered, trying not to be too loud. Sherlock knew for a fact that hang overs come with bloody nasty headaches.

John buried his face in the pillow. "Anfing excitin' happen while I wasted away?" he mumbled, rubbing his temples.

Sherlock shook his head, and smothered a laugh at the way John was talking. "Nope. You did miss breakfast and lunch though."

Groaning again, John sat up, letting the blanket pool in his lap. His hair was spiked up in every direction as he stretched, yawning softly.

Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight. "Uh...how are you feeling? You slept quite awhile...do you remember anything from last night?"

John massaged his temples, smiling. "Well, we galavanted across London chasing a deranged cabbie, you took a poisonous pill, then performed surgery on me, and I had a bit too much to drink," he coughed, his throat dry and scratchy. "I hope I didn't say anything too embarrassing I tend to ramble on when I drink."

Running a hand nervously through his hair, Sherlock weighed his options. "S_hould I mention the kiss?"_ "No, you didn't _say_ anything embarrassing. You just told me a story from when you were in Afghanistan, and then you..." Sherlock trailed off, and shook his head, "Never mind."

John chuckled, a nervous grin on his lips. "Oh jeeze, sorry," he got to his feet, swaying a bit. "Which one did I talk about?"

"I honestly don't know.. There was something about getting sand in uncomfortable places, and someone getting pranked," Sherlock laughed. "I didn't know what you were saying half the time."

John blushed. "Ooh yes, the newbies. It was harmless fun, a rite of passage, really," he said, wandering into the kitchen. "Is there anything here to eat? I'm starving." He reached for the fridge door.

"BLOODY HELL!" he slammed it shut. "Is that-what the hell is that!?"

Standing behind him, Sherlock shrugged. "It's a jar of eyeballs."

"A jar of eyeballs?" John echoed him incrediously. "Why are they-don't you even know what a fridge is for? No wonder you're stick thin!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I know what a fridge is for. These eyes are for an experiment, and I'm not _that _thin." He glanced down, studying himself. "I just haven't done the grocery shopping in awhile."

"Ex-experiment?" John scoffed. "Blood hell...I'm going to take a shower. Should I be prepared to find a body in there?"

That made Sherlock giggle out loud, crows feet appearing around his eyes. "No, I promise the bathroom is rather clean. Enjoy your shower."

* * *

John shut the door behind himself, locking it for extra measures. He rested his forehead on the cool wood and let out a breath he had been holding. _"So..we're gonna act like schoolkids and ignore the fact that I was snogging his cheekbones last night?"_

"Great...," he muttered, stripping off his clothing and turning the faucet on. He waited for the water to steam before hopping in, hissing at the hot water as it turned his skin red and extinguished his growing erection. "_Pull yourself together, Watson! Latching onto the nearest person like this will only push them away. You're lucky Sherlock didn't file a restraining order! But...he didn't say no. He didn't shove or reject you. Maybe he...could he? No...find yourself a woman, a nice woman with huge tits and get this built up tension out!"_

* * *

Sherlock laid on the couch, absentmindedly watching the tv. In his head, he made a grocery list:

Eggs (food)

milk (drink and for tea)

tea bags (obvious)

sugar (for experiments and tea)

vinegar (eyeball preserving substitute)

biscuits (food)

ham (Food)

John (...)

_"Dammit, I swear if I do not stop thinking about him, it'll ruin everything."_ Sherlock really didn't want to push John away. Just as he walked into the kitchen to make a *strong* cup of tea, John walked in, wearing nothing but a towel.

_Are you bloody joking!?_

"Oop, sorry, mate," John blushed. "Kinda hard when the bedrooms not connected to the loo." He eyed Sherlock, noticing those eyes that always seemed to change color were observing and deducing him. While he certainly felt exposed, hell he was only in a towel, he felt...safe. For some odd reason, he didn't mind Sherlock seeing him practically naked, but then he remembered Sherlock wasn't gay and the entire situation was awkward.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out and swiftly disappeared into his new room.

"It's fine..." Sherlock muttered under his breath as John shuffled away, water droplets running down his back.

God, it was just too much. If things like this were going to happen everyday, Sherlock didn't know if he would be able to take it. He'd just have to have John. That's the only solution.

John re-emerged from his bedroom, dressed in jeans, his usual shoes, and a black and white striped jumper. Practically his entire body was covered. "Right well then, shall we head off to the store and get some food in this place?"


	5. A First Time For Everything Case 2

A/N: So someone...*cough starrysummernights cough* asked for a longer chapter. Hope this good enough. Oh, and 12 days until I get to see Star Trek, yay!

* * *

Ch 5: A First Time For Everything/The Blind Banker

"Is there any particular food you like?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his Thai food stained coat and heading down the stairs to the street.

John ushered after him, shrugging. "Chinese is always good. Italian...sometimes Mexican, but not always. And we should stop at a dry cleaners for that," he nodded towards Sherlock's coat. "I am sorry about that, by the way. I never meant to upset you or anything."

A cab pulled up and John got a good look at the man's face, new habit, and climbed in after Sherlock, who waved him off. "You were just trying to be a good friend, right? I was out of line for getting angry and we'll stop at the cleaners on the way back."

John smiled and glanced out the window, admiring the view. It was a bright sunny day, blue skies, and here he was; trapped in a black death box with his new, insanely attractive flat mate.

_"Nothing happens to me, what the hell was I thinking!?"_ John huffed, shaking his head.

He cracked his knuckles nervously, pressing them together before pulling each finger individually to pop them. Eyeing his movements, Sherlock reached over and put his hand over John's to stop him.

"Just don't worry, alright?" he said softly, taking in John's gorgeous features before pulling back. At last they arrived at the store, and by chance, so was a dry cleaners. Sherlock dropped off his coat and they headed inside. John tried to ignore the fact that the tiny black buttons were about to burst on Sherlock's shirt and he wondered if that was why Sherlock was always short of breath, but he grabbed a basket, shaking himself and went to hand another to the younger man.

"Do you want to shop seperately or should we stick together?" _Please say yes._

"Stick together," Sherlock said, starting down the nearest aisle. "Anything you want? I know I want some sweets," he replied. Sherlock glanced at him to find John already staring. He quickly looked away, biting his lip. "_It should be illegal to look that casually sexy!" _Sherlock exclaimed mentally.

"Sweets?" John chuckled. "I wouldn't have taken you for a sweets person. What's your favourite candy?" They started weaving up and down the aisles, grabbing random boxes and bags of food. Chips, cereal, canned soup, beans, the usuals.

"I'm not much of a sweets person, but today...I really feel like some _white_ chocolate," Sherlock said loud enough for only John to hear, who coughed awkwardly as they passed the rack of condoms. Sherlock turned to see them and rolled his eyes, noticing as John tried to grab a box unsuspiciously.

_"Please don't tell me he's some kind of womanizer whom plans on having sex every night with some floozy!" _ Sherlock frowned and quickly led them away, pursing his lips. John's sexuality was definitely becoming the biggest mystery ever.

"W-white chocolate, huh?" John commented. "_Not __**that **__kind of white chocolate!"_

Sherlock nodded as they headed towards the fresh fruit. It was time to take the innuendos to the next level. "I've really never had it, except once, but lately I've been craving it _insanely_ the past few days." On a timed cue, they passed the rack with bananas and he grabbed one, holding it up so the tip was by his mouth. "Do you like bananas, John? They're a good source of protein, right?"

John looked up from picking out pears and choked on his salavia. Was Sherlock _trying _to-didn't he say-Lord... "Uh...you mean potassium," he muttered, feeling his cheeks burn. "How about strawberries?" _Dammit!_

Sherlock giggled, mentally checking off 'Publically embarassing John Watson' his list. "I-I'm sorry," he smiled, his shoulders shaking from laughing. John finally cracked and nudged him in the ribs. "You bloody bastard!"

Instantly, the tension between them dissipated. He grabbed a gallon of milk, balancing it and the basket, which was growing heavier and heavier by the moment. "Do you mind?" he asked, holding up the milk.

Sherlock grabbed the basket and smiled. "Anything else you can think of?"

John peeked over at the condoms again but decided he'd get them later. "Naw, I'm good." As they were waiting in line, John asked, "So how come you don't have a car? You do an awful lot of traveling."

The taller man shrugged and loaded up the groceries onto the conveyer belt. "I don't want to bother with choosing one and filling it with petrol. Why don't you have one?" he counter-inquired.

"As if an army pension could pay for that. I couldn't even afford the motel I stayed at," John replied shortly, remembering he still owned them money. "Shit, we have to stop there. I almost forgot about the rest of my stuff."

Sherlock grabbed the bags and headed outside. "That's okay, we're out and about. It's no problem to stop by."

John waved down a cab as Sherlock grabbed his fresh, clean coat from next door. He sighed as that lovely, lean body was hidden, but now the coat accuentuated his broad shoulders and thin waist, so John couldn't complain too much as he climbed in. He had no idea how he was going to get the money for them, and he started cracking his knuckles again. "They probably threw all my stuff out," he added with a fake laugh. "The lady hated me, didn't want..."my type" hanging about."

Sherlock leaned forward to get a better view of John's lips, "What exactly _is_ "your type?" " He asked cautiously.

_"Well, that question could be taken the wrong way. My type? Oh...tall, dark, handsome, deaf detective-_ "Discharged military," John muttered, making his lips move enough for Sherlock to read. "Adjustment issues, PTSD; the usual stuff. I'm surprised she didn't kick me out after the first week. Woke up in the middle of the night screaming half the time." "_Actually she did kick me out the day I met you, but you don't need to know that..."_

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled. He wondered if John had done that the last few nights he'd been in the flat. Sherlock wouldn't know, of course, and that made him feel guilty. He wanted to help John in every way possible, "Has it gotten better? Your PTSD?" Sherlock asked curiously. "And if it's that big of a deal, I can get your personal belongings back myself. I won't let you go around in the same two jumpers for the rest of your life." He said with a helpful smile_. "The same two adorably sexy jumpers. God, what I wouldn't give to rip it off right now," _Sherlock nuzzled his lip, imaging the sight, but restrained himself.

"No, it's fine. I can handle them, I'm a big boy," John smiled as they pulled up to the hotel. "Um...I guess stay here. I mean, there's no reason for you to come in, unless...you want?" "_Please say yes?"_

When a moment of awkward silence passed between them, John hopped out of the cab and hobbled inside, bracing himself for the maelstorm inside. He heard footsteps stamping after him and suddenly Sherlock was by his side. Relief washed over him and sunconsciously, John reached over and took his hand; their fingers intertwining perfectly.

Sherlock suppressed a gasp, and forced himself to continue walking. "_Jesus Christ, what brought this on_?" he thought, although he really didn't care. John's hand felt perfect in his, and it almost pushed Sherlock over the edge. They entered the motel and John hit the bell on the desk.

"Hello?" John called, keeping their hands below the counter. "Megan, it's me...John Watson."

A woman with a sneer plastered on her face walked to the front desk. "Why are you here? If I'm not mistaken, I told you to leave for disturbing the peace," she said, arms crossed tightly across her chest.

"Yeah, I'm aware," John retorted, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "I'm just here to get the rest of my stuff and pay the fee." He pulled out his wallet, bank card, and the key to the room. "I'll be in and out, 5 minutes tops."

She rolled her eyes and snorted, "Right. Five minutes or I'm calling the police."

_"That's hardly a reason to call the police_," Sherlock thought. He wanted to say something, give that woman a piece of his mind, but he decided against it, for fear of causing drama. He followed John to his room, squeezing his hand tight. "What a bitch," he commented as John shoved the key into the lock.

He opened the door and pulled Sherlock in. It was still the same piece of shit room as before. His clothes were neatly stacked in the closet where he'd left them and his toiletries were in the bathroom. John scanned the room, making sure he didn't leave anything behind. "Okay, let's go." He turned to get his things, but Sherlock had his pile of clothing in his arms with a small, cute smile on his lips.

As they returned to the lobby, Megan had an even more unpleasant sneer on her face.

John sighed, "What is it now?"

She held up his card, "It's been declined. I tried several times; you don't have enough money to cover your stay."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John's face turn red with embarassment as he sighed, taking his card back. Balancing everything on one arm, Sherlock whipped out a credit card. "Use mine, shouldn't be a problem," he spoke confidently, enunicating each word perfectly.

It must've worked since John's jaw dropped as Megan took his card, swiped it, and handed him the receipt. "Good thing your boyfriend is rich," she spat, slamming a pen on the counter top. Sherlock signed it quickly and took John's hand, finally freeing him from that godawful hotel.

Once in the cab, John pulled out his phone, wrote a message, and handed it to Sherlock.

_~How did you do that? You sounded like you weren't deaf at all, it was amazing! And I'll pay you back asap, I promise.~_

Sherlock chuckled, erased the message, and typed his own quickly.

_~If I concentrate enough, I can do it, but I dislike focusing that much all the time so I sound...however I do. Don't worry about the money, that was Mycroft's card.~_

John snorted and burst out laughing. "Your brother's card?" he chuckled, grinning like a fool. "Are-are you serious? Oh my God, Sherlock, you're the worst! Is he going to be mad?"

Sherlock smirked, and shrugged. "Doubt it. The man has endless money, and he doesn't care what I do. He usually puts up with my shenanigans."

"Oh, and now it's my turn?" John nudged him, his foul mood forgotten.

They returned to Baker Street and unloaded their groceries, putting everything in its proper place. John let Sherlock move the pickled eyeballs in the fridge so the actual food would fit. John went to his new room and put away his clothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. This felt nice...right even. When he came out, Sherlock was at his laptop. "Anything exciting happening out there in the world?" John asked, plopping down in his chair.

When Sherlock didn't answer, John moved closer, slowly and carefully putting his hand out to knock on the desk. The vibrations alerted him.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, a bit worried now. Sherlock stood abruptly, and shut his laptop. "Come on, John. We need to go to the bank," he stated. Without another word or explanation, he walked out the door and hailed yet another cab.

John panicked. "Is this about your brother's card? I promise as soon as I get a job I will-" Guilt filled his chest and for a moment, John thought he was going to be sick. "Always such a fucking burden," he muttered under his breath.

Sherlock smiled, "No, John. Stop worrying about the money. Someone's broken into the bank, and they've asked me to come check it out."

John straightened up and followed after him. "Oh, another case? That's good...sounds less dangerous," he said to himself since Sherlock was pouncing down the stairs in front of him.

They got to the street just as the cabbie was about to drive away, but Sherlock hollered, waving his arms to stop him.

"Where to this time? the cabbie asked, facing Sherlock.

"The Shad Sanderson bank," Sherlock instructed.

* * *

As they approached, John gazed up at it in awe. Banks had certainly gotten fancier since he left. They headed inside and Sherlock informed the receptionist of who he was. John had a feeling Sherlock felt a bit of pride when he said his own name.

A man in a nicely tailored suit walked up to them, introducing himself as Sebastian and they headed into his office for thier next mission.

"This is my new friend, John Watson," Sherlock motioned towards him, a proud smile on his lips.

"Hi," John held out his hand, shaking Sebastian's.

While Sebastian and Sherlock chatted, John glanced around, taking in the sight of the office. Rather fancy. When a money figure was mentioned, John came crashing back to Earth.

_"How much up front!?" _he had to remind himself to shut his jaw.

Sherlock waved the check off and went into the cubicle area, investigating away. John turned to Sebastian, taking the check "for safe keeping." He headed back out to the main floor, catching Sherlock peeking behind a barrier.

"Find anything?" John asked, watching as Sherlock rolled across the floor before jumping to his feet.

"Eddie Van Coon," the detective replied, taking his hand and pulling him out to streets. "We need to go to his apartment."

"Okay!" John trotted after him as they hailed yet another cab and drove about 10 minutes down the road. They approached an apartment complex and before Sherlock hit the ringer, he explained to John, "Tell whoever replies you just moved in, forgot your key and need them to buzz you in. Ask to use their balcony."

John gaped at him. "Wha-nevermind, okay."

John cocked his eyebrows. "Um...hi, I don't think we've met, but I live in the flat beneath you," John said. God, his voice sounded so flat and dull,he wouldn't be surprised if they got caught. "I...locked my keys in my flat, can you buzz me in? You don't mind if I use your balcony, do you?" he added when Sherlock made the sign for 'balcony.'

The door unlocked and creaked open and he sighed with relief. Sherlock gave him a thumbs up and rushed inside. Storming through the woman's flat, Sherlock jumped over the edge of the balcony and unlocked the door to Van Coon's flat.

John sighed, watching Sherlock jump off the balcony to the one below. _"Kids these days..." _he walked down to the lower floor and knocked on the door to the flat. After a few moments of silence, he banged on the door, enough to make the hinges shake. Yanking out his phone, he texted_ ~Sherlock, let me in.~'_

* * *

Sherlock ignored his phone incessantly vibrating in his pocket. He crept around the flat looking for more clues. Judging by the suitcase full of dirty pants, he saw the victim had been away for at least three days. He felt the vibrations from the door being kicked in and Sherlock turned around to see someone who looked much like an angry detective approaching him, followed by John and a team of workers.

"Sorry," John mouthed as the angry detective and his team started to take over.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" he prodded Sherlock in the chest. "No one called you here, I could have you arrested. And your little...friend here," he motioned to John.

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock snapped back, swatting the man's away. "Where's Lestrade?

"It's his day off," the detective snapped. "And you weren't invited, so I suggest you piss off." He shoved past Sherlock and went into the room. "Mark it as suicide, let's get the cornors in here and clean it up. Obviously bank drama," he yelled out orders. John stood beside Sherlock, giving the man the stink eye.

Sherlock marched back to the detective, towering over him. "This is clearly a murder. Why would this man go through the trouble of shooting himself on the right side of the head, when he is so obviously left handed? Look," Sherlock demanded, pointing around the room. "Side table: left. Coffee handle: left side. It's. A. Murder," Sherlock sad through clenched teeth.

"Left handed?" Dimmock asked. "How the hell did you figure that?" He glanced over at John, who gave him a "Just listen to him" glare. He looked back at the dead man, uncertain now.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The butter knife in the kitchen has butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left hand. All of his suits are in the left side of the closet because he'd opened the left door. There is a paper and paper on the left side of his phone, so he could hold his phone in his right hand and take messages with his left. Care for me to go on?"

"No, you can shut up now," Dimmock snapped. "Alright then...if it's a murder, would you like to explain how someone broke in and killed him when there's no sign of forced entry?" He grinned, he had the stupid "consulting detective" stumped.

The detective smiled smugly. "Good job,you're asking the _right_ questions now!" He turned to his flat mate. "Come along John, we need to find Sebastian and tell him about his murdered employee."

Giving a brief nod to Dimmock, John headed out after Sherlock. "Okay, so we established it's a murder. Now what?"

A cab slowed to a stop in front of the pavement. Sherlock ducked inside, "Well, the graffiti in the office was obviously a threat to Van Coon foreshadowing his death. So we need to find out what the threat was. A code, a cipher. And _you_ need to find a job."

John sighed irritably. "I know, I grabbed a newspaper from the store. Shouldn't you get a job-a real paying job-too?" he added. Sherlock really didn't have the right to boss him around. Hell, in civilian life and military, John outranked him.

Easily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please...me? A job? I don't think so. I get paid a ton for cases like these, I hardly think I need some mediocre part-time job."

Sherlock sat quietly, staring out the window as John made call after call. As they traveled across town, John called a few numbers, chatted briefly with whoever was on the other line. After several calls, he grinned. "Aha! Got a job interview tonight. Locum doctor."

"Good for you," Sherlock replied, slapping his shoulder.

John frowned. "Well, I'm certainly not going to be some barista at a coffee shop," he shot back. "I'm already your new house keeper."

Sherlock held up his hands in defense. "I told you- you didn't have to clean. You did that on your own free will," he retorted.

"So, where are we headed? Back to the bank? The flat?" He cracked his knuckles restlessly. "Sorry...," he reached out and took Sherlock's gloved hand. "Haven't had a job interview in a long time, who'd want a beat up army doctor for a job?"

"Anyone would be lucky to have an army doctor like you work for them," Sherlock whispered, staring at John's beautiful lips.

John blushed, in spite of himself. "Thanks Sherlock, that really means a lot to me," he smiled, leaning in when he caught himself. _"Wait...we're not a couple. Sherlock doesn't do-he's not-" _John pulled back, hoping Sherlock wouldn't catch his movement. He let their hands fall on the seat between them. "Right..." he muttered.

Sherlock huffed, squeezing his free hand into a fist. _"Why the hell does John keep coming onto me, and then rejecting me?" _It was so damn infuriating! As soon the cab slowed down in front of the flat, Sherlock was stomping to the door. "I'll let you get ready for your interview!" he snapped, taking two steps at a time.

John followed after him, running a hand through his hair, musing it. He hopped in the shower, scrubbing himself clean. He dried off and found his best black slacks, a white white button down, and a maroon coat. He found a tie to match and was adjusting it as he stepped into the living room. "What do you think?" he held his arms out. "Decent enough?"

Sherlock broke out of his haze as he saw John step into the room. _"Damn, he looks good." _He pulled himself into an upright position, and looked John up and down. "Yeah. You look fine," Sherlock answered bluntly, trying to make it seem as though he really didn't care.

John let his arms hang. Fine...he looked...fine.

"O-okay, um...don't know how long it'll take, but I'll call when-nevermind," he interrupted himself and slouched down the stairs. "What's the point?" he asked himself, heading down the street. "The bloody case is obviously more important."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, displeased with John's childish attitude. He laid back down on the couch, switched on the telly, and added the subtitles before he got comfortable. He had a hard time paying attention, unable to pull his mind away from the case and John.

* * *

John walked through the doors of the urgent care office and walked up to the desk. There was a lovely woman with dark blonde hair typing away, high cheek bones, tiny lips; very cute. "Uh, excuse me, miss? I've got an interview with Sarah at 4?"

The woman at the desk let a flirty smile dance across her lips_. "He's not half bad looking." _"I'm Sarah," she said. "You must be John." Sarah stood, and walked to the other side of the desk. "Your interview will be in here," she gestured towards a door.

John smiled, showing off his teeth. "Great," he followed her in and sat down. "Hope you don't mind me being a little early. Just had some time to spare," he said nervously. He always got nervous around lovely women. Something about the curves of their bodies, the feeling of their bosom against his chest; yeah, he liked that. He licked his lips as she sat down in her chair_. "Clean thoughts, Watson, keep 'em clean."_

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, "I've reviewed your resume, and you seem to be a bit overqualified." Sarah always had a soft spot for army men; the way they looked in their uniforms just pushed her over the edge. Sarah crossed her legs tight, feeling the heat in the pit of her belly rise up just thinking about it. "Says here you're a soldier."

"Was a soldier," John coughed. "And, I don't mind if it's loc-...locum work. Something is better than nothing. In fact, it'd be nice to have peace and quiet on a job. Front lines were a bit much," he explained, watching as she flipped her hair. Nuzzling his lip, he thought_, "If there was anything God created properly, it was a woman's body."_

Sarah smirked, "Good, good. So, an army doctor who likes mundane work.. What else can you do?" She asked, a flirty tone in her voice.

_"What can't I do?" _he thought naughtily, his eyes wandering up and down her form. "I make a nice cuppa. I'm pretty down to earth, like to keep things simple." _"For Christ's sake, just ask her out_!" his conscience yelled at him. "If this-uh...doesn't work, I mean, if I'm not fit for the job, which I understand by the way. It'd just nice to be in the office again, would you...um...like a cuppa or maybe see a movie_?" "God, a movie!? What are you, 15?"_

"Oh, you've got the job, that's for sure!" she said, filing his papers. "A movie sounds great," Sarah added, her cheeks turning pink. "So...tonight at 7 sound good?"

John's eyes widened. "R-really? I mean that to both-great! Yeah, that's uh-yeah," he laughed, a tightness in his chest released as he got to his feet. "7 it is then."

Sarah waved goodbye, and sauntered back to the front desk. "See you tonight," she purred flirtaciously.

When she was out of sight, John jumped for joy. "Yes!" he practically skipped out of the office and back to Baker Street. Once back in the flat, he started making himself a victory cuppa. "Hey Sherlock, guess what!?" he beamed, feeling light as a feather.

Sherlock smiled, he liked seeing John happy. "What? You got the job?" He asked, excitement laced through his voice. He walked to the kitchen and poured a cup for himself.

"Not only that, but I've got a date tonight!" he said proudly, handing Sherlock his cup, not noticing the pained and shocked expression on his face. "Cheers!" he clinked their glasses together and took a deep drink. "Would you happen to know what movies are playing at the theaters? Or maybe we should go to the theatre and see a play? Or the museum? What do you think Sherlock?" John turned to his flatmate, his goofy grin stuck to his face.

Sherlock's smile faded. "T-that's great, John. I'm r-really happy for you," he stuttered._ "What happened to him holding my hand earlier? Him leaning in for a kiss?"_ He stepped back into the living room, running a hand through his hair in defeat. "You could.. You could uh, go to the circus in town. I bet she'd enjoy that. It's a one-day-only show."

"Circus? Sherlock, you are BRILLIANT!" John scooped the taller man in his arms and lifted him off the ground in a bear hug. "That's perfect! I'm gonna call her right now!" John all but dropped Sherlock onto the couch, giggling at how he fell limply and dashed off to his room, phone glued to his head. "Hey Sarah, it's John. There's a circus in town tonight, how's that sound? ..Perfect! Say around 7:30? Wonderful! See you then!" He came bouncing back out. "I owe you big time, mate! You're the best, you know that?"

"I can't fucking understand what you're saying, John," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "But hey, mate, I'll order the tickets online for you." He faked a smile and pulled out his laptop, ordering three tickets under the name of Holmes. _"If he wants to play games with me, I'll play right along."_

"Really? Are you sure?" John asked. Sherlock cursing was never a good sign. "Will you be alright tonight? I mean, we can always do something else another night, Sarah and I." He liked the way that sounded: Sarah and John. Rather fitting.

"Yep. I'll be just fine." Sherlock smiled. "Have fun with her."

"Okay, thanks," John came up behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms over his shoulders. "I'll take you out to dinner when I get my first paycheck. Anywhere you want in town," he said, giving him an extra squeeze. "Maybe you can teach me some basic signs."

Sherlock raised his hand and placed it over John's, his heart aching. No one had ever made him feel like this and while part of him hated the fact that John was screwing with his mind and heart; the other half of him didn't mind at all. "Sure thing..." he muttered as John wandered off to get ready for his date.

* * *

10 minutes after John left, Sherlock headed for the circus. He found John in the dark by the gate, picking up his tickets.

"Jawn!" he drawled,exaggerating his voice so Sarah (he assumed that was the blonde latched on John's arm) would think him weird and strange. Sherlock held out a hand. "Hi, I'm Sherlack, Jaaaawn's flat-may. You muth be Susan," he said loudly, barely understandable.

Sarah had the most awkward and uncomfortable look on her face. "Uh...hi. My name's actually Sarah. Sar-rah," she pronounced it slowly. She glanced at John. "Who is he?"

John sighed, "This is my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. I didn't know you'd be joining us," he added, clapping a hand on Sherlock's back before spinning him around so Sarah couldn't hear him snap, "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing!?"

Sherlock shrugged, a smug grin on his lips, "You said you were going to buy tickets for Sarah and me, not yourself included!"

He slurred his reply heavily so Sarah would hear him, "Sowwy, John. I jus' wanted te see the circus, and technic-cally you didn' tell me I coodn't. If you wan, I'll leave you and Thally alone, and I'll go home, and I'll miss the one-night-only circus. I've never been to the circus, Jaaawn," he added with a far off look, pouting his lips; baby blue eyes shimmering like a hurt puppy.

"Never?" Sarah gasped. "Oh John, we have to take him with us! You've honestly never been to a circus? Oh my gosh, they're so much fun!" She wrapped her arm around Sherlock's and practically dragged him off, leaving John behind. "C'mon slowpoke!" she called. "You'll have a blast, Mr. Holmes," she promised. "I can't believe your parents never took you to one. Oh, there's so many things to do, I don't even know where to begin!"

_"Well, fuck. That backfired. Plan B, I suppose." _Sherlock nodded sadly, "My parents weren't never around. Hell, maybe if they were, I wouldn't be like this," he said, pointing to his ears. He turned around, "Come on, John. Sally's so nice, I can see why you're on this date with her_!" "I'm going to shoot myself if she doesn't stop touching me." _He tried to wiggle free from her iron grasp, but she held him firm.

Sarah frowned, caressing his cheek, just below his ears. "Your parents _let _this happen to you? Oh, you poor thing! Thank goodness you have John looking after you. He's such a gentlemen and so cute!"

John stood behind them, like a third wheel in flames. He wanted nothing more than to throttle Sherlock. "Yes, poor thing, indeed!" he said loudly. "It's such a shame," he was annoyed and pissed off.

He pushed himself between the two, keeping his back to Sherlock. "Are you hungry, _Sarah_?" he put emphasis on her name. "Maybe we should get something to eat before the show starts?"

She smiled, "Yeah, why don't you get something for all of us to share? I'll stay here with Sherlock, so no one bothers him. Last thing we need is some meanie picking on you!" She wrapped her arm around him again. "Has anyone told you that you have the loveliest blue eyes?"

"Thank you," he replied. "You have nice-" _nothing_ "-hair."

Behind them, John blew a fuse in his mind and stormed off. Yanking out his phone, he sent a strongly worded text to Sherlock while he waited in line for food.

_"Ooh, good thing I met John" _Sarah giggled to herself as Sherlock slew his arm around her. _"I always like the tall, dark, handsome, sensitive ones_." "Thank you," she replied, running a hand through her hair. "I do try and take care of it, unlike most girls in this city. So, tell me more about yourself? What's this case you're on? Can I help? I've always wanted to be a detective, I've played Cluedo before, I'm an expert."

_"I regret this idea,"_ Sherlock moaned to himself. "Well, there were two murders of employees from this bank. John and I found some graffiti of Chinese numbers, which turned out to be some sort of warning to the victims. While John was off at his interview, I found out that both the murdered victims were part of a smuggling gang from China, and one of them had stolen something."

He felt his phone vibrate, and read the text from John. Sherlock chuckled, "John thinks I'm trying to steal you away. Not to worry though, I'm gay. You don't have to worry about me seducing you now, Sandra," he laughed, loud enough for John to hear.

Her arm vanished from his. "Oh...," she looked disappointed and embarassed. "Does that mean...John-oh gosh, I had no idea he was gay too! I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock laughed, rocking on his heels. "Oh no, John's as straight as an arrow. Otherwise, he wouldn't have asked you out, silly. He's so excited to be starting work with you, and he kept going on and on about how sexy you are," Sherlock laughed again. "There you are, John! Sandra and I were just talking about you!" He said brightly, still hardly intelligible.

John gave him a stink eye and smiled at Sarah. "I hope Sherlock isn't telling you his terrible jokes. Humor is not his forte."

She laughed and started to pick at the beef and brocoli. "No, he's fine," she said as the lights started to dim. "Oh, it's about to start. C'mon!"

As they headed into the stadium, John yanked Sherlock back his arm so they were face to face. "I swear..when we get back to the flat, I am going to mmmrhmm," John bit his lip. "I'm gonna make you regret this."

Sherlock merely smiled and followed after Sarah who was waving them down. "C'mon!" she was jumping for joy as the lights dimmed.

"This had better be worth it," John muttered to himself as the stage was illuminated. _"Not worth it."_

A lady in Chinese attire stepped out and started spewing some nonsense John really didn't care about. "This date is ruined you know!" he hissed at Sherlock, who pulled him in for a hug.

"Ssh John, this is fun!" he giggled, ruffling John's short hair. "Sorry that I crashed your date, but thanks for letting me stay to watch the show, buddy."

John shoved him off, growling. "I swear..."

A man in chains and a warrior mask was brought out and strapped to a wooden plank. As the scene was set up, Sarah leaned over to John. "Ooh, Chinese bondage. Kinky," she added a wink, latching onto him instead.

"Yeah, fun stuff," he coughed, tugging on his collar. He had fond memories of that in Italy when-

The lady pulled out a huge arrow and set it on a bow contraption. She slit a sandbag overhead, lowering a weight into the crossbow's trigger. _Now_ things were getting interesting. The entire room watched in anticipation as the clock ticked down.

The man screamed, struggling and John snapped, taking a step forward to help. This wasn't entertainment, this was pure torture. Just like Afghanistan, it was the same mindless torture and he'd be damned to let an innocent man die for entertainment. The weight nearly touched the plate and John dropped his own plate of food to run. "No!"

Just as the sandbag hit the weight, the man freed himself and dropped to the floor, safe. Sherlock grabbed John by the coat before he could run closer, "Calm down, John. He's fine," he assured him. Sherlock leaned in to John's ear, "You do understand that this circus is run by the smuggling gang I mentioned earlier, right? I'm going to go scope around," Sherlock attempted to whisper.

Before John could make a surprised remark, Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, and started walking away, "Just going to the loo," he announced.

He laughed nervously, glancing at Sarah who had the same horrified expression as they took the set apart again "I didn't think he was gonna make it," she gasped, putting a hand over her heaty.

He reached out and took her hand, intertwining their fingers. He frowned...it didn't feel _right _for some reason. "Quite a show, huh?" he smiled.

"John, you're such a sweet man, for serving our country and taking care of Sherlock. Whoever gets to call you theirs is extremely lucky," she said sweetly, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. Oddly enough, that didn't feel right either.

* * *

Sherlock walked around backstage. He saw the woman who was onstage from before and quickly ducked behind a statue holding the red Chinese armor.

_"She must be the ring leader of this operation."_

When she left for the stage, he continued snooping around until he saw an unzipped duffel bag. Inside were several cans of the same yellow spray paint used to graffiti the bank. "Gotcha," Sherlock whispered. He started to turn around, before he was knocked to the floor by the statue, which was very much alive. He slammed his foot into Sherlock's chest repeatedly, trying to break his ribs.

Breathless and blinded with pain, Sherlock scrapped the floor with his hand, grabbed a paint can and sprayed it in his eyes. The man howled as the paint burned his eyes and he blindly drew a sword. He slashed at Sherlock before stumbling into him and knocking both of them through the curtains and onto the stage.

_"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" _Sherlock cursed as the wind was knocked out of him and he fell limp in the ground as the man raised his sword once again to slice him open. The crowd screamed and dispersed in panic, but John facepalmed before charging the man to the ground.

"Sherlock, are you okay!?" he yelled, checking over the younger man for injuries. Behind him, the man rose to his feet, preparing to attack them both. Sherlock tried to speak, but words didn't come fast enough and he shoved John aside before rolling away to safety.

Sherlock grabbed a spare sword and swung it, connecting with the chinese man's. He parred and disarmed the man within seconds. John couldn't help but be fascinated at the fact that Sherlock knew how to sword fight. Behind him, Sarah ran up, crying, "John, are you okay!? Are you hurt?" She kissed his cheek several times. "Oh, I was so scared for you!"

"Y-yeah, fine," he muttered, eyes set on Sherlock as he dropped his sword and walked towards them.

"I think now would a good time to leave, don't you think?" Sherlock said, holding out his hand for John to take. He accepted and they headed out onto the streets as police showed. Sherlock hopped into the nearest cab, waving his phone at John before it sped off.

"So now what?" Sarah asked, blinking as she tried to process what just happened. "Is that what you do for a living?"

John shrugged. "It is now. Shall I walk you home?" he asked, brushing her coat clean.

Sarah nodded, "I'd love for you to. You're such a great guy. I don't know if I'd be able to take care of a grown invalid like Sherlock. You must have a heart of gold." She laced her fingers through his, and leaned her head on his shoulder. "You know, I think I'm taller than you," she giggled.

"Who isn't?" John joked, hoping to get a laugh out of her. "This has been an interesting date, most exciting one I've had." They headed down the street together.

Sarah laughed, "Ehh, I've had better dates," she joked. "Will Sherlock be okay? Should we go check on him?"

John pondered it, grinding his teeth slightly. "I'm sure he's fine, though I am going to have to talk to him about meddling with my personal life."

Sarah pouted, "Don't be too hard on him. I'm sure he was just trying to help. Let's go check on him!"

* * *

"Ah John, good you're back. We don't have to worry about the circus groups leaving for China, because they won't leave until they've got what they came for. Which is good news, meaning we still have time to decipher this code," Sherlock explained quickly. He pulled a small pile of books away from the others, "These are all the books our murdered people have in common. I've already checked the pages of each one, but none of them create a message that makes sense. Maybe you could help," he continued.

John was stunned. "Uh...sure, Sarah, make yourself comfortable," John smiled, diving into the mountains of book. Instead, she walked up beside Sherlock. "So...this is what do you for a living? You solve puzzles?" She grabbed the bag with the photographs and studied them. "So...these numbers are a cipher and each pair of numbers is a word, right?" she asked, setting the paper down and looking at Sherlock.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock demanded, snatching the bag from her. She was right...

Sarah pointed to the paper proudly. "Someone already translated the first two words. Nine Mill. See?" She winked at John who stood there, just as stunned as Sherlock. "If you finish translating, you'll found out whatever it is you're solving. Murder?"

Sherlock gaped at Sarah. "Why didn't I see that before?!" He wondered aloud, angrily. _"Now I just have to find the book to translate the code_..." Sherlock sat deep in thought for several minutes. Finally, he stood and walked out of the flat, "I need fresh air."

As he headed out the door, John pulled out a bottle of wine, poured two glasses and handed one to Sarah. "That was impressive," he smiled, sitting down beside her on the couch and wrapping his arms around her thin waist. "Hope this date hasn't been too boring."

She smiled, peeling his arms off. "Well, second most boring," she admitted. Downstairs, someone knocked at the door rather harshly. "Is that him?" she asked.

John sighed, "Probably locked himself out." He headed down the stairs, opening the door not to Sherlock, but a hooded stranger. The next moment, hard cold metal collided with his face and his vision went black.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock dashed up the stairs after his walk around the block. "John, I think I figured it out, we have to-"

He froze in the doorway. John's favourite bottle of wine was knocked out and spilt, staining the carpet, his and Sarah's glasses were broken on the floor, and yellow paint was sprayed over the windows with the last clues to the code.

His heart skipped a beat and Sherlock frantically grabbed the cipher, wracking his brain as quickly as possible to figure it out. He tried to push the thought of what could be happening to John at this very moment and every time he did, his hands shook so badly, he dropped the book and pen.

There wasn't much time.

* * *

John sputtered and shivered as ice cold water was dumped on him. "Wh-what the hell!?" he could barely see, it was so dark. A trash can filled with garbage was burning, their only source of light. Beside him, Sarah was bound and gagged in a chair. He couldn't tell if it was tears or the water from the bucket in her eyes; probably both.

In front of them stood the Chinese lady from the show earlier, along with the man in armor who had attacked Sherlock.

"Let her go and I'll do whatever you want," he demanded, his voice dropping low.

"Uh, uh, uh, Mr. Holmes," the woman tutted. "The only thing I want is the treasure." She walked around them, getting close to John's face. "A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket," she said mysteriously.

Walking to Sarah, she stroked her face, "Such a shame we'll have to kill a pretty face like yours. Unless of course, Mr. Holmes gives us the treasure," She hissed.

"Treasure? What treasure? And I'm not Holmes, my name is John Watson!" he struggled in his chair and nearly tipped over, but the man from the show steadied him. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes and I don't know what treasure you're talking about! Now let her go!"

The Chinese woman pulled John's wallet from his pocket. "A bank card in the name of S. Holmes. A cheque for 5,000 pounds made out to Sherlock Holmes. Ticket stubs for Holmes," she listed, pulling them out of the wallet. "Where is the treasure?" She yelled.

John bowed his head. "Look, I know what this looks like, but you've got to believe me, I'm _not _Sherlock Holmes! I borrowed his bank card when we went grocery shopping, and I held onto the check from the bank for him. He bought us the tickets, you have to believe me." He glanced over at Sarah, her eyes blazing with fear as she shivered. _God, if he could just hold her now._

Shan signaled her henchman, he nodded, and dragged Sarah's chair to a spot in the middle of the room. He moved her directly in front of the crossbow from the circus act. Shan brandished a sword, and held it in front of the dangling sandbag. "Now, either you can tell me where the hair pin is, or your girlfriend will die," she said simply.

* * *

Sherlock raced down the street towards the tramway, finding John and the smugglers. He hid behind the stone wall, trying to decipher what John was saying through the flickers of the flames. When he bucked and kicked in his chair, yelling incoherently, Sherlock moved.

He ran at the henchman as fast as he could, and tackled him. Knocking him to the ground, Sherlock punched him in the temple. A blow to his stomach caused Sherlock to roll across the ground, kicking up sand everywhere. He landed at John's feet and pulled out a small pocket knife to break his restraints.

"I'm sorry John," he muttered, pulling the ropes off.

"I swear, if we get out of this alive, I'll murder you myself, you little shit!" John spat before running to help Sarah. He tried to ignore the metal weight dropping closer and closer to the boil. The bonds were tight but John managed to loosen one around her wrist when the henchmen Sherlock had tackled, wrapped a silk scraf around John's throat and tugged hard, yanking his head back.

John gagged, wheezing at his windpipe was cut off. He reached back, trying to grab any part of his attacker's face but the henchman seized his wrist, twisting it until the bone popped out of the socket. John let out a strangled cry of pain and fell to his knees, his vision starting to blacken for a second time. "Sar-sarah...," he exhaled. "

Sarah struggled against the ties, sweat pouring down her face. She moved, wiggled, and kicked, doing everything she could to get out of the line of fire. The weight mere centimeters from the bowl, Sarah kicked as hard as she could, knocking the tripod over. As soon as it fell, the ballista fired, barely missing her head, and stabbing straight through the henchman's heart.

He and John fell to the ground in a heap. John yanked the scarf off and started to help Sarah out of her bonds. "A-are you okay?" he gasped, trying to get air back in his lungs.

She burst out crying, wrapping her arms around John's neck and burying her face in his chest. "Ssh..shhh, it's okay. Promise the second date won't be like this," he joked, running his fingers through her hair. He glanced over at Sherlock, giving him a hurtful look and sighed. "I swear..."

The young, deaf man stood there, taking the sight in. He would never admit it, but he didn't want to see John in danger ever again. "C'mon," Sherlock mumbled, helping Sarah to her feet. "Let's get her home."

Within minutes, police arrived at the scene. Sarah was pryed off of John and ushered away in an ambulance, shock blanket drapped over her shoulders. "We'll keep her overnight and keep you updated on how she's doing," the nurse told them before they drove off. John studied the scene, figuring no one would notice them slipping away. "Come on!" he grabbed Sherlock by his shirt collar, ready to rip him a new one once they were at the flat.

John practically dragged Sherlock upstairs. "Your limp is better," Sherlock pointed out. He drew in his breath, feeling John's fist connect with his face. He staggered back, "What the hell was that for?" Sherlock yelled.

"You bloody bastard! Why did you have to ruin everything!?" John shouted, not caring if Mrs. Hudson or all of Baker Street heard him. "You just _had _to be your usual pompous self and put an innocent woman in danger so you could prove a point and solve a crime! Sherlock, she almost got killed because of you, and so did I!"

He held up his wrist. "_Ths_ is because of you! If you had just waited one _damn_ night, everything would've been perfect! I won't even get the job now, let alone another chance at a date with Sarah!" He stormed off to his room, but stopped adruptly when Sherlock retorted.

"We're going to have a proper talk without you being a little bitch." He said, grabbing John by the shoulders and spun him around. "You brought this on yourself. If you hadn't led me on, kissing me the other night, holding my hand, leaning in for a kiss, I wouldn't have had the absurd thought that you actually liked me! "I thought you wanted me from the way you were acting, and then you go and get a girlfriend? So why did you ask Sarah out? Tell me!" Sherlock demanded, breathing heavily.

John was dumbfounded. "What? I _never_ kissed you!" he shrugged Sherlock's hands off of him.

Sherlock laughed bitterly, "You say you never kissed me? Sure you were drunk, but you were practically snogging me," he yelled.

"What are you playing at!?," he yelled back, lying_. "Shit...he noticed all that."_ He turned to leave again, fed up with where this conversation was going when Sherlock delivered another bombshell.

"And what about Jason, huh!? It's obvious you're at least bisexual!" he snapped. "What about him then?"

Anger boiled in John's veins as he turned on his heel, eyes glowing darkly and irritated. "Don't you dare..."

"What?" Sherlock snapped, getting angier by the moment. "First you're gay, then you're not. Then you are again, make up your mind! Why Jason and Sarah but not me!?"

He got nose to nose with Sherlock and spoke clearly so he would get every word drilled in his brain. "You really wanna know what happened with Jason? He was abusive. Before and after I joined the military. Called me a shell of a man, a broken pitiful creature and he'd beat me until I begged him to stop or until I was unconscious."

John took a shuddering breath, his eyes rimming red with heldback tears. "And yeah, maybe I thought we...you and I could...but it's obvious this won't work."

Sherlock was stunned, completely stunned. "John," he whispered softly, the mood in the room changing dramatically. "I would _never_ deliberately hurt you, John. Not to mention you're the one who just punched me in the face."

"Great," John rolled his eyes. "I knew I should've kept my mouth shut about that. You just have to make everything about yourself, don't you?"

"Apparantly I do!" Sherlock snapped. He knew he was going too far, but it was too late to stop and the words flew out of his mouth before he could prevent them from doing so. "We've been living together now- for what, two weeks? And not _once _ have you even attempted to learn a single bit of sign language. Ever heard the term 'when in Rome, do as the Romans do'? Well, you came into _my _ flat, making _me _step out of my comfort zone, and use my voice, which I haven't used in over 14 years. That was pretty fucking selfish of you, don't you think? You couldn't be bothered to learn my language, so I'm forced to use yours. That seems fair," Sherlock yelled, his words running together.

John scoffed, his heart pounding as he sarcastically retorted, "Oh, what part of 'Hey Sherlock, maybe sometime you can teach me basic signs' did not HEAR tonight? But no...you had to get all comfy and cozy with Sarah! Since it's such a fucking issue, let me be the one to walk out!"

John did an about face sharply on his heel, heading for the dresser with his phone. "Not once have you complained about talking out loud! You never said a damn thing so don't you DARE pull the pity card on me. And in case you forgot, which seems to be obvious, YOU'RE the one who practically forced me to move in with you. YOU told me to meet you here so we could split the rent, but I see why you did that. You're too fucking lazy to get a real job, pay your own bills, and basically be an ADULT! I'm not gonna baby you and hold your hand anymore! Find someone else who's willing to put up with a blind, deaf, and dumb amatuer!"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock marched after him and watched John pack his thing. "Maybe I never complained about it, because I didn't want to pull the pity card! Maybe I thought that you knew what it's like to have a disability, so I didn't think I needed to make you pity me. But your leg seems to be magically all better now. And you know what? I AM an adult. I may not have a real job, but I make more money than you do in a year working one fucking case. I only wanted a fucking flatmate, because I'm lonely. Because I can't get any *real* friends. I thought you were my friend, but you obviously aren't," Sherlock argued. "I didn't force you to move in with me. You were perfectly capable of turning me down, so you brought this on yourself," Sherlock whispered, turning to leave the room. _"I'm not a fucking amateur."_

John watched him leave, his chest tight. He grabbed the few jumpers that he owned, his trousers, and tolietries. He stuffed them into a pillow case and made his way into the living room to grab his jacket.

"Fine, it's fine," John said. "You don't wanna open to me, that's fine. You ever look in the mirror to see if _that's _where the problem is? Maybe that's why you don't have friends." He opened the door and hobbled down the stairs, praying Sherlock wouldn't see his limp and think he was faking it. Stress and anxiety always made it act up, plus the heavy sack of his belongings on his injured shoulder, held by his inflamed wrist weren't helping.

"Cheers," he said, taking a final look at 221B Baker Street before shutting the door. It was extremely chilly out and John turned his coat collar up against the wind as he headed...well for who knows where. Anywhere but _that_ warm, cozy flat and the tall, thin, lean, handsome man he insulted and left behind. With each step, his anger slipped away, and John realized just how exhausted and out of breath his was.

He found a park several blocks from the flat and curled up into a ball on a bench. A few other homeless people wandered about and John remembered: his gun was still in his room. He sighed and pulled his collar over his face. It was going to be a long and cold night.

* * *

The moment he felt the front door slam, Sherlock let out a sob and fell onto the couch, burying his face. He cried for what felt like hours, until he worked up the nerve to text John.

_"No. He hates me. If I text him, he'll think I'm weak." _Sherlock thought about the argument he and John just had. God, how could he be so stupid? How could Sherlock let the one man who'd ever understood him, even for a small period of time, slip away?

~John? I'm sorry. Please come home, it's too cold outside. -SH~ Sherlock hit send, feeling guilt settle in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He forced his hand away from his armpit and pulled it out of his pocket, his breath fogging in front of his face. It was from Sherlock. John deleted it and shoved his hand back to his armpit, shivering harsher than before. He knew he was being stubborn, but he never wanted to admit he was wrong. If he did, Sherlock would never let him live it down. He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep as an icy breeze hit him, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine, making his bones ache.

* * *

He threw on his coat, and grabbed a blanket, knowing John would be cold. Sherlock ran down the stairs, and up the street. ~How the hell am I supposed to know where he is?~ He wandered around for 30 minutes until he reached the old park where homeless people slept. He would've walked right past had he not seen John's pillow case and the shivering heap of brown laying in the grass.

"John!?" he yanked the collar down, revealing John's pale face, his teeth chattering. "Oh God.." without another word, he scooped the smaller man in his arms and headed for the flat. Once inisde, he moved to the bathroom and ran the hot water.

"S-sh-sherlock," John protested, sitting on the toilet, rubbing his arms frantically.

Ignoring him, Sherlock started to strip him, noticing John's skin felt like ice. "There's no time and this probably isn't right, but-" once John was in his red underpants, Sherlock lifted him into the tub.

"Fuck!" John yelled as his body was submerged in the hot liquid. His skin turned from blue to red as his body temperature turned to normal. Sherlock sat beside him, watching and waiting desperately.

"You came for me?" John said after several long minutes. "Even after all the nasty shite I said?"

Sherlock nodded. "Well...you weren't the only one who said something wrong tonight," he added a small, embarassed smile. What John said hurt, and Sherlock didn't know if he'd ever be able to fully forgive him. He motioned for John to stand up, and he handed him a towel. "I'll make us some tea," he offered, leaving John to dress.

He stepped out into the living room to find Sherlock carrying two steaming hot cups of tea to the couch next to the fire burning brightly and warmly. There was always something so homey and mesmerizing and...oddly romantic about fires.

"I don't deserve that, or this," he sighed, grabbing his stuff. "I don't deserve any of this. What I said was unforgiveable, so I'll save you the vaulable time and kindly escort myself outside."

"Are you insane!?" Sherlock leaped over the furniture, blocking the doorway. " I'm not letting you go back outside in your condition," he stated, pulling John to the couch. "Sit down. Some of the things I said were pretty terrible too, so don't worry. If you forgive me, I'll do the same. Hell, even if you don't ever forgive me, consider yourself already forgiven," he assured John, pulling him into a hug. "I'm so very sorry, John," Sherlock whispered into the embrace, leaning his cheek on top of John's head. _"Just don't leave again. Please."_

John sat there, mind blank. Sherlock was truly a saint...he returned the embrace, pulling the taller man closer as he was radiating heat and John was still cold. He smiled when Sherlock used him as a head rest. "I...f-o-r-g-i-v-e...y-o-u" he wrote on Sherlock's back as he buried his face into the chest of warmth. He leaned back after a few moments, their eyes meeting. _"I swear they were blue...now they're green_," John wondered to himself.

Sherlock smiled, unwilling to let go. He nuzzled his head against John's, and squeezed him tight before letting go. He pulled away, and pointed to himself, then brushed his fingertips along the length of his palm, and pointed at John. "I forgive you," he repeated out loud.

John grinned his goofy smile and tried to repeat the gesture Sherlock did. "I," he pointed to his heart, "forgive," his rubbed his fingers across his palm before reaching out to cup Sherlock's cheek. "You," he whispered. His heart rattled in his chest before he surrendered. He placed his other hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck and closed the space between them, pressing their lips together.

Sherlock gasped. _"I was not prepared for this to actually happen." _Sherlock shut his eyes tight, and wrapped his arms around John's waist, moving his slightly parted lips against the shorter man's.

_"Well, he hasn't punched me yet" _John thought, jumping slightly when Sherlock's arms slithered around his waist, pulling him closer. He felt those soft pink lips part and John leaned in more, wanting to literally take his breath away. He pushed Sherlock back onto the couch, lying on top of him, fingers combing through that head of black curly, silky smooth hair.

Sherlock blushed, feeling himself moan as John took charge and landed on top of him. He rubbed the small of John's back with one hand, and tangled the other in John's short, military style hair. Sherlock prayed silently that John wouldn't feel his hardening erection hit his thigh.

John bent his leg to steady himself and pulled back to get some air. He smiled and chuckled slightly at the man beneath him, noticing how his blue-green eyes were wide, his pupils full blown. He watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall with his panting breath, his neck exposed. "Is that-well...I uh...that was a turn of events, huh?" he blushed, taking Sherlock's hand in his and kissed his knuckles.

"I don't understand.." He breathed. "If _this _ just happened, why did you go out with Sarah earlier?" Sherlock asked, feeling a bit like a jealous teenager.

John nuzzled his lip and sighed,"I was scared," he admitted. "Because...you were so sweet and sincere. The same way...Jason was. After I got to know him, he changed...he became more controlling and demanding. I got scared that if we got too close, you'd do the same. I didn't want to get hurt again, I didn't want be alone, which is why I followed you here. I just needed someone, but...when I met Sarah, I thought she could be the one for me to...be with." He raised his head and locked on to Sherlock's eyes. "If a woman rejected me, I'd be fine...but with you, I didn't want to be rejected."

Sherlock giggled, "Really? This entire time you've lived here, I've been worrying over whether or not you're even gay." He ran hand through John's hair, "I won't be controlling or demand, and I'll certainly never hurt you. I'm not Jason." Sherlock pulled John's chin to look up at him, "I'm not Jason," he repeated. Sherlock kissed him on the cheek, "And I couldn't possibly reject you. You're far too perfect."

"That's not true, I'm far from perfect," John gave him a tiny smile, the edges of lips curling up. As Sherlock kissed his cheek, he turned and captured those sweet lips again and gently pushed him back down.

He wasn't done quite yet.

He nibbled at Sherlock's lower lip before kissing down his chin, to the curve where his jaw met his neck. He gave a tiny, mischievous bite, grinning at the sound Sherlock made. John eased up and rested his head on Sherlock's chest, drowsiness overcoming him. Sherlock tugged on the blanket laid over the back of the couch and threw it over them. With their body heat trapped under it, and the warm glowing fire, Sherlock kissed John's forehead and they dozed off into a peaceful sleep together.


	6. Case 3: The Great Game part 1

A/N: This chapter isn't as long as the last one (oh Lord...) but it's got plenty of action, I promise.

* * *

Sherlock woke up the feeling of John resting on his chest, his nose flaring slightly with each relaxed breath he took. The young man smiled and brushed his fingers gently through that blonde hair that now fell into John's eyes. Leaning in, he pressed a gentle kiss to John's cheek, causing him to stir.

"Mmph!" he moaned, scrunching his nose. "Good dream, don't wanna wake up," he mumbled into Sherlock's chest.

"Alright, alright. Go back to sleep," Sherlock chuckled, rubbing John's back. He frowned at how far John's shoulder blades still stuck out of his back, but he could change that in a few days.

John smiled and hummed, "Mmm...feels nice." He lifted his sleepy head and kissed Sherlock's exposed collarbone, finally opening his eyes to see his...flatmate? Boyfriend? No, that sounded too childish.

Manfriend?

"Morning," John said, sitting up, stretching his arms over his head, feeling his bones crack. "Ugh, pardon the old man, here," he joked as he turned his neck to pop it."Just gettin' the joints oiled up and moving."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up, feeling his own spine pop several times. "The couch isn't exactly the most comfortable thing to sleep on. Do you want some tea to help you wake up?" He got to his feet and headed into the kitchen, stopping mid-stride when he saw the clock.

9:32am.

"John...um...what time do you work today?" he asked worriedly, turning around.

"8am. Why?"

"You're 90 minutes late."

"What!?" John practically hit the ceiling, racing to see the clock. "Oh shit..." he ran to his room, getting a pair of clean trousers and a jumper on. He ran for the door, ripping his coat off the rack. He shrugged it on as he darted back into the kitchen, catching Sherlock's lips in an unexpected kiss. "Be back later, love. Bye!"

And with that, he was gone, dashing down the streets of central London.

Sherlock stood stunned before a goofy smile spread on his mouth. The kiss tingled and lingered as he poured himself a cuppa and sat down, boredom growing already.  
He watched TV until nothing was on, snooped through John's room and found his handgun and emptied the magazine into the wall before tossing it aside. Stomping back to the couch, Sherlock tried to think of something else to do. He stood there and let out a huffed breath when he felt the ground vibrate. Frowning, he spun around the room, trying to see what was causing it when the windows blew in, sending glass everywhere and knocking him unconscious to the floor.

* * *

John slammed into the front door, banging his knee and cursing before racing towards the desk and a terrified Sarah. "So-sorry I'm late!" John huffed, bending over with his hands on his knees. "I...I can explain, please..."

Sarah sat there confused. "Umm...John, I wasn't expecting you back until next week. I figured you'd need time to recover from the Chinese incident, so I gave you PTO until next Monday."

John stopped breathing and stood up straight with raised eyebrows. "P-PTO? I'm not fired?"

"No... why would you be? If you'd like to stick around, we could use the help," she added, smiling.

A relieved smile and sigh came from John as he relaxed. "Sure..." he said, heading back to his office. The tension in his chest left as John settled down for his first patient of the day.

At lunch, he headed to the nearest cafe for food and checked his phone. Smiling to himself, he sent a text.

_~Hope that kiss didn't knock you out cold.~_

* * *

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock groaned and sat up, feeling a few sheets of paper scatter off him. "Ooooh hell," he grumbled when a particular rhythm of vibrations alerted him. Looking up, he saw a figure in the doorway.

"Why are you here?" he snapped, getting to his feet unsteadily.

Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes. "Please tell me you're not serious. An explosion on Baker Street and you assume I wouldn't show up?"

"You probably thought it was me, didn't you?"

"Naturally."

Sherlock let out a small, "Humph!" and started to clean up. John would be pissed if he saw the state of the flat. Speaking of John...

He picked out his phone from the mess to find a text from his new partner. Grinning childishly, Sherlock replied.

_~Well...you didn't, but that explosion certainly did!~_

"Any reason why you're still here?" he asked aloud, glaring at his brother.

"I'm concerned," Mycroft said, maneuvering carefully around the mess. "You could've been killed."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically. "I'm touched."

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at his little brother. "That's not funny."

"I think it is."

* * *

John sat in the break room, enjoying a nice cup of coffee. Still no word from Sherlock yet. Must be too focused on an experiment or something. John tried not to imagine what horrors he could creating in their kitchen when Sarah burst in, tears in her eyes.

"John, the news..." she whimpered, turning the small TV on.

"-massive explosion in central London. As yet, there are no reports of any casualties and the police are unable to say if there's any suspicion of terrorist involvement. Police have-"

Without another word, he was out the door, racing home. As John rounded the corner, his heart skipped a beat. The building across from 221B has been obliterated, debris covering the street. It looked like a war scene as John approached, fighting off flashbacks of Afghanistan.

He bolted up the stairs, two at a time, into the living room. "Sherlock!" he cried, taken back at the damage caused.

There, in his chair, was Sherlock with his violin. "John," he smiled, plucking a string.

"My God, are you okay!?" John rushed in, cupping Sherlock's cheek. "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock set his violin aside. "I'm fine. Gas leak, apparently."

"Really, Sherlock? You're 'fine'? I found you unconscious on the floor, " Mycroft spoke and signed simultaneously. John jumped slightly, unaware there was someone else in the room. Turning, he saw an older man, ginger with a receding hairline.

"Who the hell are you?" John snapped, facing him.

"You must be John," Mycroft said, twiddling with his umbrella. "Really baby brother, you get yourself a flat mate/boyfriend and didn't even tell me. Why?"  
Sherlock shrugged, "I hate you. Just ignore him, he's an idiot."

Mycroft glared at him. "I'm not the one who got a flat mate who doesn't know how to sign. That's pitiful."

John was about to open his mouth to protest when Sherlock beat him to it. "He's learning. Rather quickly, better than you did."

John glanced at Mycorft. "Oh...do you have uh...issues too? Deaf, blindness?"

"God, you're ignorant," Mycroft sneered. "Just because my brother does, doesn't mean I do."

"That's lovely," Sherlock got to his feet and started shoving his brother towards the door. "But you really must be going. We've got lots of work to do, cases and cleaning the flat. Don't we John!?" he added.

"Huh? Oooh yes," John nodded. "We *are* on a case. Very busy, hardly any free time, sorry, Michael." John bit his lip to stop from laughing. If he thought the urge to punch Sherlock was strong, then the urge to punch his chubby brother was like keeping an atomic bomb steady.

"It's Mycroft you-" Sherlock slammed the door in his face. "Hell, I thought he'd never leave!" Crossing the room, he scooped John up in a hug and kissed his cheek. "I am fine, though. Just a little shaken up, but fine."

John relaxed. "You sure? Once your body settles down, you may go into shock."

He shrugged. "I've got a doctor/boyfriend who will take care of me."

Smiling, John pulled him down onto the couch so they could cuddle. Once in a comfy position, John pressed his lips gently to Sherlock's. "Always," he whispered. "But in all honesty, we don't have a case."

Sherlock's vibrating phone suggested otherwise.

_"We have a case for you. We found a package addressed to you while investigating the explosion. -GL_

* * *

"Ha!" Sherlock sprang to his feet. "A case. Let's go!"

As they climbed into the taxi, John reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his own. "So... did your brother know when you'd... gone deaf? Why didn't *he* tell your parents or your nanny? Did he LET this happen to you? I'll kill him if he did," John muttered. "It's good he's protective of you, though," he added. "Family's always important."

Sherlock smiled weakly, and patted John's hand. "I was 8 years old, like I said. I didn't really know what was happening to me, and Mycroft was only 15. I didn't tell him I was sick until I had started losing my hearing. He *did* tell my parents, but by then, there was nothing that could be done. This," Sherlock gestured to his ears, "Was no one's fault but my own."

John sighed and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Still..," he muttered.

Once at Scotland Yard, they found Greg and went into his office. He pulled out the strong box and handed them the phone. "This was inside," he said. "Isn't this the phone from 'The Study in Pink'?"

Sherlock took it and started to examine it. "No, it looks very similar, someone went through a lot of trouble-wait, Study in Pink!?" he glanced at John. "From your blog!?"

Greg shrugged casually, "Well yeah, we all read it. Good stuff!"

Just when Sherlock was about to reply, the phone vibrated 5 times and the screen lit up with a photo.

"Well, where the heck is that?" Greg asked.

John shook his head. "I have no idea."

"I know where this is," Sherlock said, taking John's hand. "Come on!"

* * *

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock the keys for the basement at Baker Street, following them curiously. In the main room, was a pair of sneakers. As Sherlock approached them, the phone went off.

'Answer it!" he yelled, tossing it to John.

"Hello?" He put it on speaker. On the other line, a woman was crying. "12 hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock. Or else I'm going to be... so naughty," John repeated what the woman said, speaking so Sherlock got every word.

"Christ, he's got a hostage," John's face paled as he pocketed the phone. "We have 12 hours, Sherlock."

"More than enough time," he assured John, kissing him square on the lips. "Let's get to St. Bart's!"

* * *

John watched as Sherlock worked away in the lab. He had to admit, it was calming to watch Sherlock move around, gathering his supplies, using the equipment properly; it was rather cute. Several screens were scanning and running tests for him when Molly suddenly appeared.

"Find anything?" she asked, giggling.

"Almost," Sherlock glanced up at her then the guy who followed her in. "Who's this?"

"Oh, That's Jim, he works upstairs. We're dating," She said with the hope of making Sherlock jealous. ~He's definitely gay,~ Sherlock thought.

John frowned, pursing his lips at the young man. Dark brown hair, somewhat lanky and thin, but he seemed...really familiar.

"Excuse me, do I know you?" John asked him.

"I...don't think so," Jim shook his head, mumbling. "Who are you?"

"John Watson," he replied. "You just look like someone I knew before I left for the Army."

Jim shrugged, his shoulders nearly touching his ears. "Sorry buddy, fraid I don't."

"That's okay," John replied, but the twisting in his gut wouldn't go away. Where the hell had he seen this guy before?

As soon as Jim left the room, Molly rounded on both of them. "Do you know him!?" she asked accusingly.

"John said he didn't so calm down," Sherlock rolled his eyes, impatiently tapping his fingers on the counter.

You're just jealous I've got a boyfriend. You're jealous you didn't get me while you had the chance!" Molly yelled, finally at her wit's end with Sherlock. Sherlock smirked. "That's great, Molly. I've got a boyfriend too," he said, glancing at John.

Both Molly and John were shocked. "What?" they said simultaneously. Molly was about to burst into tears as she ran out of the room. John stood there in stunned silence for a moment. "Wait, so... we're-I mean, you and I are," he stuttered, that goofy grin fighting to take over his face. "We're together now?"

Sherlock blushed. "Well, um... after last night, I'd assumed so. Sorry, was that wrong of me?" He asked looking away in embarrassment.

"Wrong? No...," John stepped closer, cupping Sherlock's smooth cheek. "I just... wasn't sure if you wanted a relationship. You did say you considered yourself 'married' to your work. Unless you're willing to divorce it, then... wait, would that make me your mistress?" John was puzzled at thought.

Sherlock laughed and took John's hand. "Consider me and my work divorced then."


End file.
